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hyuckiefluff · 2 months ago

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playing dirty | z. chenle

pairing: basketball captain! chenle x fashion major! fem.reader

genre: established relationship, smut, a lil bit of crack

wc: 4k

summary: you’re tired of chenle ditching you for basketball practice, so you do what any rational girlfriend would do—show up to his practice in a slutty version of his team’s uniform. turns out you’re kind of good at basketball. turns out chenle can’t handle watching his teammates ogle the love of his life. turns out the locker room has a lock for a reason.

content warnings: semi-public sex, jealousy & possessiveness, mild clothing kink, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, light degradation (slut), brief choking, hair pulling, creampie, titfucking, spit play, exhibitionism (accidental), bratty reader, basketball but make it horny, suggestive banter, mild embarrassment & teasing, soft dom!chenle. lmk if i missed any!

a/n: possessive chenle save me SAVE ME POSSESSIVE CHENLE lol i had a lot of fun writing this and i rlly like how it came out (especially the smut kekeke). kinda nervous since it’s my first chenle fic lol lmk what u think bffs! ps: stream lucid !! my king chenle is serving face and vocals as usual!!

you’re sick of it.

sick of the half‑assed excuses, the “i’ll make it up to you, babe” texts, the cold side of your bed because basketball practice ran late again. the sport isn’t the villain here—chenle’s priorities are. so tonight you decide to speak in the only language that ever slapped any sense into him: pure, weaponized pettiness.

you dig into your closet to find the box tucked behind an old hoodie. the custom set you spent a whole week sewing in the campus fashion studio—his cropped jersey perfectly tailored to end right above your ribs, his number stretched neatly across your chest, tight little shorts that ride up high enough to give anyone with a pulse an aneurysm, and tube socks that reach your knees but do absolutely nothing to hide how much skin is on display.

you originally designed it as a birthday gift for chenle, something psexy and playful, the kind of outfit that should not leave the bedroom.

but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“you want to play, baby,” you murmur to yourself, lip tugging into a smirk as you tug the top down over your chest, admiring how your careful stitchwork hugs every curve. “let’s play then.”

twenty minutes later, you're outside the gym where chenle’s practicing. you can hear echoing laughter, the thump of basketballs, and the sound of sneakers squeaking across the court. chenle’s voice cuts through it every few seconds barking out plays or teasing his teammates, totally oblivious to the chaos about to walk through the double doors.

you adjust the hem of your very customized uniform and tug the waistband of your shorts up an inch, just enough to make your ass cheeks peek out more.

when you swing the gym doors open, a dozen jaws detach from skulls in real time. one guy bricks a layup so hard the ball ricochets off the backboard and clatters to the floor.

chenle basically inhales the water he was drinking the moment he sees you strut onto the court in the tiny jersey you stitched yourself. he doesn’t even manage any words at first, just blinks slowly.

you beam, stepping closer. “hey, baby!”

he moves toward you quickly, fingers gripping the hem of your jersey and trying to tug it down. “what the hell are you wearing?”

“your uniform, duh!” you say innocently. “remember you said i could come practice with you sometime?”

“yeah—but not…not like this!” he hisses, glancing sharply over his shoulder. his teammates aren’t even pretending to look away, their eyes glued shamelessly to every exposed inch of you. chenle groans, turning back to you in disbelief. “jesus christ, y/n.”

you spin slowly, letting him admire your handiwork. “i made it myself. do you like it?”

his eyes narrow, but they still flick down to watch your chest bounce beneath the tight fabric.

somewhere behind him, jaemin whistles low and appreciative. “yo, chenle, if you don’t want her, i’ll gladly take her on my team.”

chenle’s jaw clenches. “let’s go,” he mutters, gripping your wrist to lead you off the court.

but you plant your feet, looking up at him through your lashes. “lele, you promised you’d teach me,” you pout, your voice sweet and pleading—exactly the tone you know breaks him every single time.

you see the storm raging behind his eyes, the internal battle he’s clearly losing. after a long, tense pause, he finally gives in with an irritated sigh.

“fine,” chenle groans, running an exasperated hand through his hair. “i’ll teach you.”

he tries to sound firm, tries so damn hard to keep his cool but his voice cracks the instant you bend down to grab a stray basketball. every single set of eyes follows as your shorts ride dangerously higher. chenle practically growls under his breath.

“eyes up,” he snaps sharply at his teammates.

you hide a satisfied smirk, straightening up slowly and tossing chenle the ball. “so, how do i shoot?”

he glares at you, conflicted. he knows exactly what game you’re playing, but it’s too late to back down now. he steps close, muttering something unintelligible under his breath and positions his hands firmly on your waist. his fingers flex possessively against your skin making heat spark low in your belly.

“bend your knees,” chenle instructs tightly. you comply, feeling him tense behind you as your ass brushes firmly against him. he clears his throat roughly. “now raise your arms.”

you do as you’re told, stretching slowly, feeling every pair of eyes glued to the way your jersey inches higher. someone coughs loudly and someone else whistles under their breath.

“like this?” you ask, feigning innocence as you toss the ball. it hits the rim and bounces away, but the guys clap loudly like you just dunked on lebron.

chenle’s jaw clenches. “yeah, like that,” he mutters through gritted teeth, pulling you close again. “try it again, but please don’t stick your ass out so much this time.”

you laugh softly, leaning back just enough to whisper in his ear. “why not? you like it.”

he groans quietly, his grip on your hip tightening in warning. “don’t push it, baby.”

just as chenle's hands tense possessively at your waist, a teasing voice interrupts from behind.

“yo, captain! why don’t we run a quick game? let your girl play too, seems like she’s picking it up quickly.”

chenle's entire body stiffens, eyes narrowing dangerously at the cocky teammate smirking across the court. haechan, obviously—never passing up a chance to stir shit up.

“yeah,” another voice eagerly agrees. “she can be on our team!”

“not a chance,” chenle snaps, glaring daggers at them. “she stays with me.”

you tilt your head. “actually, i think i wanna be on the other team. it'll be fun playing against you.”

he groans quietly, clearly torn between the urge to pull you away and needing to save face in front of the team. he runs a frustrated hand through his hair before giving in with a sharp exhale. “fine. first team to five points wins, then we’re done. keep it clean,” he warns, voice tight as he shoots a pointed glare toward his teammates.

the guys erupt in cheers, gathering quickly around you to strategize. haechan immediately drapes an arm lazily over your shoulder, pulling you closer than strictly necessary and making chenle visibly bristle.

“alright, newbie,” haechan smirks, eyes flicking playfully toward chenle. “just stand there looking pretty and we’ll handle the rest.”

you smile sweetly, leaning up close enough to whisper in his ear and making sure chenle sees every move. “oh, i can handle myself just fine.”

you catch chenle’s scowl deepening, his fists clenching at his sides. suddenly, the entire gym feels about ten degrees hotter, and you’re pretty sure it has nothing to do with basketball.

the game begins, and the team immediately spreads out, pretending to care about positions and plays, but half their attention is undeniably on you. you smile sweetly, dribbling cautiously, deliberately bending forward just enough to ensure everyone behind you gets a generous view.

chenle’s voice slices sharply through the gym, frustration barely restrained. “eyes on the damn ball, idiots.”

you stifle a laugh, heart thrumming with exhilaration. you might be new to basketball, but getting under chenle’s skin is a game you’ve mastered to perfection.

every bounce of the ball, every step you take, you can feel eyes following—chenle’s most intensely of all. he’s practically vibrating with jealousy, torn between defending against his teammates’ shameless stares and actually playing defense.

haechan effortlessly steals the ball from your boyfriend and tosses it your way, shouting, “take the shot, rookie!”

you catch it clumsily, laughing breathlessly as chenle lunges in your direction, eyes narrowed with determination. adrenaline spikes as you fake left, then slip past him with surprising agility. your lay-up is sloppy, but by some miracle, it actually swishes neatly through the hoop.

the gym erupts in cheers and whistles. spinning around with a triumphant grin, you lift your arms in exaggerated celebration. haechan immediately appears beside you, pulling you into an enthusiastic hug that lingers just a second too long.

“damn, captain,” he calls out loudly. “better watch out, your girl got sweeter hands than you.”

chenle’s eyes flash dangerously, jaw visibly clenching as he stalks across the court toward you. every step radiates possessiveness and simmering annoyance. you tilt your head innocently, knowing exactly what’s coming next and loving every heated second of it.

“that's it. practice over,” he announces sharply, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward the locker rooms.

“aww, dude—” haechan starts, clearly amused, but chenle silences him with a glare that could kill.

you bite your lip, heart pounding with satisfaction. finally, you’ve pushed him right past breaking point.

exactly as planned.

chenle’s grip on your wrist is firm, bordering on rough, as he drags you past the swinging locker room door and shoves it closed behind you. the echoes of sneakers squeaking and voices laughing outside fade, replaced by the rapid thump of your heartbeat and chenle’s heavy breathing.

he turns sharply, backing you against the lockers, eyes darkened with frustration.

“what the hell was that?” he demands, voice low and raw. his gaze drifts from your flushed cheeks down to the ridiculously cropped jersey, lingering briefly on the exposed curve of your waist before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

“basketball practice,” you reply innocently. “you always said you wanted me to learn.”

“not dressed like this,” he growls.

his hand finds the hem of your jersey, fingers grazing the bare skin underneath. he hesitates, visibly swallowing down his jealousy. “you really made this yourself?”

“yep,” you say lifting your chin proudly. “thought it might inspire you.”

chenle scoffs, but his thumb drifts in soft circles at your waist despite the scowl. “inspire me to what? murder my teammates?”

you giggle, fingertips dancing across his chest. “you’re jealous, lele. admit it.”

“yeah, i am,” he mutters sharply.

his grip tightens on your waist, pulling you even closer against him. “didn’t you see how those assholes were looking at you? like they wanted—”

“like they wanted what’s yours?” you interrupt softly, teasing a finger along his jaw. “maybe i just felt like reminding you of that.”

his breath catches, and for a moment, he just stares down at you. finally, he sighs heavily, tension slipping into something deeper, hotter, infinitely more possessive.

“well, consider me reminded,” he murmurs, voice raspy as his lips brush teasingly against your ear. “but you’re never wearing this again for anyone but me.”

you shiver, leaning into him as your voice drops to a whisper. “oh? and what if i refuse?”

he smirks dangerously, eyes glinting. “then i guess i’ll just have to make you.”

his mouth melts against yours before you can tease him again. the kiss is punishing, hard enough to erase every grin haechan shot your way and every greedy glance the team threw at your thighs.

his hands roam without hesitation gripping your waist, sliding up under the jersey, cupping your breasts with a low groan. he breaks the kiss to mutter, “fuck, you’re not even wearing a bra?”

“would’ve ruined the look,” you whisper, breath hitching as his thumbs brush your nipples. “you like it?”

“fuck yeah i like it” he growls.

you gasp as he yanks the jersey over your head in one swift motion and places it in his pocket. his lips trail down your neck, biting at the skin there. “next time you wanna get my attention,” he mutters, voice muffled against your collarbone, “just fucking say so. don’t make me nearly kill haechan on the court.”

you giggle, threading your fingers through his hair. “where’s the fun in that?”

his eyes flash as he sinks to his knees, fingers curling into the waistband of your shorts. “i’ll show you fun.”

he tugs them down so slowly it's almost torturous and drags your panties with them. his breath ghosts over your inner thighs, his mouth following suit a moment later. he groans against your skin, licking a slow stripe up your center before wrapping his arms around your legs and diving in.

you slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the moan that slips out. the locker room’s not soundproof, and the last thing you need is the team doubling back and catching chenle with his head buried between your thighs.

but he doesn’t care. he wants them to know. he wants them to hear you fall apart on his tongue, wants every single one of those bastards to understand that you’re his.

you’re already trembling when he stands back up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and kissing you. his fingers curl under your thigh, lifting you effortlessly as he walks you backward into the coach’s office—a smaller room with a desk and a door that locks.

he kicks it shut behind him.

“bend over the desk,” he commands, voice low and dangerous.

you obey, heat pooling between your legs again as your chest hits the wood and his hands smooth down your spine. he’s rougher now, undoing his shorts with jerky movements, lining himself up behind you with no warning except a hot breath against your ear and the blunt press of his tip against your entrance.

“you wanna dress like a little slut in front of my team?” he rasps, gripping your hips. “then take it like one.”

he slams into you in one deep, punishing thrust, and you cry out, barely able to hold yourself up. each snap sends your hips jerking against the desk, the edge biting into your stomach.

“this what you wanted?” he pants behind you, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to bruise. “wanted to make me jealous? wanted to be the center of attention?”

you nod frantically, but it’s not enough. his hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back so your eyes meet his in the reflection of the office window that’s fogged up and smeared from the heat of your bodies.

“say it.”

“yes,” you gasp out, eyes glassy. “i wanted to drive you crazy.”

he chuckles darkly, chest heaving. “congrats, baby. mission fucking accomplished.”

his hand slips down, fingers finding your clit and circling it mercilessly. your legs threaten to give out, but he holds you steady, pinning you against the desk with his weight and the sharp slap of his hips.

“look at you,” he growls. “acting all innocent in front of my team, now falling apart on my cock.”

you’re close to your orgasm when suddenly, he yanks you back by the hair and pulls out with a wet slap. you whimper at the loss, but he’s already grabbing your hips nd spinning you around.

he spreads your legs and slides back in with a guttural moan. his hands come up, almost reverently, cupping the soft weight of your breasts as they bounce with every thrust.

his thumbs brush over your nipple and then he leans down, mouth hot and greedy as he sucks one into his mouth, groaning in pleasure.

“fuck—” he pants, tongue swirling and teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt. “i can’t fucking think when they’re out like this. you know what you do to me?”

your moans are strangled now. he’s sucking so hard, it s leaving deep red bruises all over your chest. he bites, soothes, sucks again. you clutch at his shoulders, legs wrapping tighter around him, and he grinds deeper, angling his hips to hit exactly where you need him most. his rhythm’s gone erratic, his obsession pouring into every snap of his hips, every bruise he leaves behind.

“look at you,” he pants, pulling back just far enough to watch. “bouncing all pretty for me. no one else gets to see this. no one else gets to fucking touch you.”

his palm slaps across your tit. hard enough to make it jiggle and watch the recoil as he thrusts in hard.

“fuck,” he groans, voice breaking. “you’re gonna make me cum just looking at you.”

your head lolls back, a whimper escaping your lips as his hand slides from your breast down to your neck, holding you still, eyes locked on the mess of you laid out under him—wrecked and panting and marked everywhere his mouth could reach.

you’re close again, tighter and hotter this time, clenching around him. your moans echo in the small office, filthy and raw, and he doesn’t even try to hold back now.

he fucks into you harder, mouth locked on your nipple again as he spills inside you, every muscle in his body tensing as he groans against your chest

you’re barely coherent, mind hazy from the way he just fucked you over the desk. but chenle isn’t satisfied. not even close. he steps back to drink in your naked form, flushed and dripping with him.

his cock’s still rock hard somehow, twitching against his stomach, and his stare is nothing short of unhinged.

“lean back,” he rasps, grabbing your chin with wet fingers. “hands behind you. keep your tits up.”

you obey instinctively, legs falling open wider as you brace yourself on the desk, presenting yourself like the filthy little offering you are.

chenle just grins and crouches slightly, grabbing your breasts with both hands. and then he spits on your chest. hot, stringy spit right down the center of your, sliding between your tits and pooling under your collarbone.

“that’s better,” he mutters, eyes gleaming. “you look so hot covered in my spit.”

you gasp, chest rising as he does it again. letting it drip from his tongue while staring you down, and then he smears it in using his thumbs to rub it across your nipples.

you moan, high and wrecked. “lele—fuck—”

“look at your fucking face. you’re getting off on this.”

you are. embarrassingly so. he can see it in the way your thighs clench, and in the way your hips shift forward aching for more attention. he presses his cock between your tits now, sliding it back and forth while kneading them hard, thumb brushing over your nipple with every thrust.

“look at me,” he snaps.

your gaze locks onto his, dizzy and dazed.

“open your mouth.”

you do and he spits again, right onto your tongue.

“don’t swallow yet.” he growls, shoving his cock between your tits faster now, panting like a man losing his mind. “keep it there. hold it.”

you moan around the spit in your mouth, letting it dribble down your chin just to watch his eyes darken even more. chenle looks fucking deranged with lust.

you moan when the head of his cock slides forward, the tip just barely grazing your chin on the upstroke.

you glance up at him, lashes fluttering, and then you stick your tongue out enough to tease the head when it brushes close.

“fuck,” he hisses, thrusting harder between your breasts now, chasing that angle again, just to feel your tongue catch him. “you want it in your mouth that bad, huh? can’t even wait?”

his cock keeps hitting just under your chin, and every time it does, you flick your tongue out again and catch the tip, tasting the mess off his slit.

“fucking—fuck,” he curses. “do it again.”

you do and this time, you even suck lightly when he slows for a second, lips parting around just the head before he pulls back and keeps fucking your chest. his control is shattered now. his body stutters and twitches with every stroke.

you whimper, fingers gripping the edge of the desk behind you, mouth open and waiting.

“you love this,” he pants. “you love being used like this. letting me fuck your tits… drooling for my cock.”

“i love it,” you whisper, lips glossy with spit and pre-cum. “i love how crazy you get when i do.”

he thrusts one more time and spills between your breasts again, ropes of cum painting your skin. you lean forward, tongue dragging through his tip. licking the cum off it slowly, like a cat drinking milk.

chenle nearly collapses, stumbling forward and pressing against your bare chest.

“you ever show up to practice like that again,” he murmurs, voice hoarse against your skin, “i’ll fuck you in front of them all. make ��em watch while i ruin you.”

you whimper, still trembling beneath him.

“but for now,” he smirks, wiping your chin with his thumb and sucking it clean, “this mess stays just between us.”

you’re still catching your breath, body slick with sweat and spit and cum, when chenle leans in and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. it’s a jarring contrast to the way he just wrecked you against the desk, but that’s chenle. feral one minute, gentle the next. both versions still obsessed with you.

he puts on his shorts, pulls your jersey from the pocket and inspects it with a low whistle.

“you’re not putting this back on,” he mutters, shaking his head. “no fucking way.”

you smirk, chest still rising and falling as you look up at him. “why not? i worked hard on it.”

“you said you made it to inspire me, so i’m keeping it.” he crumples the jersey in one fist and shoves it straight into his pocket. “i’m hanging that shit on my wall.”

you laugh, weakly. “you’re ridiculous.”

he grabs his team jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, zipping it halfway up. it swallows your smaller frame, falling almost to your knees, sleeves covering your hands entirely. the way he looks at you—satisfied and possessive—makes it clear the outfit isn't negotiable.

“here,” he says, tightening the collar just a bit. “this is all you’re wearing now.”

you glance down at how the hem of the jacket just barely hits the tops of your thighs. you’re still wearing nothing underneath.

“guess i’m going commando,” you hum, teasing.

“yeah, but no one’s gonna know except me.” chenle grins, standing tall and adjusting your hair with stupid care. “let’s get you out of here.”

you barely make it out of the office when a low whistle slices through the silence.

the entire team—haechan front and center—is awkwardly standing there, pretending they haven't been shamelessly eavesdropping.

“damn, took you long enough.”

chenle freezes, fingers tightening around yours so hard you nearly yelp.

“i think you lost these,” haechan says, eyes sparkling mischievously as he spins something delicate around his index finger, your eyes widen with recognition.

your panties.

“found ‘em by the lockers. figured someone might be missing them.”

chenle’s face goes murderous in a heartbeat, jaw clenching so tight you're afraid his teeth might crack.

“give me those,” he growls, lunging toward haechan, who dances backward, keeping them just out of reach.

the boy chuckles, clearly enjoying every second of this torture. “you gotta be careful, man. wouldn’t want anyone else to find your girl’s cute little souvenirs.”

chenle lunges again, this time catching haechan’s wrist, wrenching your panties out of his grasp roughly. “i’ll kill you, dude.”

haechan just laughs, completely unfazed. he shifts his gaze toward you, his voice playfully taunting. “maybe next time you practice with us, try keeping these on? might help the captain focus a little better.”

you bury your face into chenle’s chest, half laughing, half dying of embarrassment. chenle just rolls his eyes, pulling you closer and guiding you down the hallway, past his shameless teammates.

“you assholes got nothing better to do?”

“nah,” haechan replies smoothly, eyes twinkling with barely restrained laughter. “but it sounds like you two were pretty busy.”

the team snickers loudly, trying (and failing) to keep straight faces. chenle’s ears turn scarlet, but he keeps a protective arm tightly wrapped around your shoulders.

“fuck off,” chenle mutters darkly. “next practice, you’re all running laps until you puke.”

“worth it,” haechan teases, tossing you a playful wink. “good game, by the way.”

“practice tomorrow?” jaemin asks from behind, laughter bubbling beneath his words.

“fuck no,” chenle growls back without turning around. “we’ll be busy.”

as you pass the door, haechan calls out, voice dripping amusement and challenge

“see you next practice y/n!”

chenle’s response is immediate, muttered darkly into your ear. “like hell he will.”

your cheeks burn from embarrassment—and exhilaration.

mission fucking accomplished, indeed.

898 notes · View notes

ds-angel1 · 29 days ago

Note

could you do a rafe!drugdealer x reader who is constantly talking about reader’s weight

cw: a lot of talk about weight, calories and scale mentioned, very toxic rafe, mention of sex, crying

It started small. Just a flicker beneath the surface, too subtle to name, too quiet to call out.

"You gonna eat all that?" he asked one night at Tannyhill, eyes locked on your plate as it had offended him. His tone was light, almost teasing, but his gaze didn’t waver.

There was something coiled beneath his words, something not entirely playful. You paused, fork halfway to your mouth. He tilted his head slightly, that smug half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Just saying. You looked better last summer.”

You laughed it off, cheeks burning with confusion. Back then, you still did that, smiled through the sting, convinced yourself it wasn’t a red flag, just a weird comment from someone who loved you. That’s what love was, right?

Honest. Raw. Unfiltered.

But it didn’t stop there. It never does.

At the gas station a few weeks later, you grabbed a bag of chips from the shelf, craving something salty. Without a word, he plucked it from your hands and dropped it back like it was poison. “Empty calories, baby. You already said your jeans felt tight, remember?”

His voice was low, edged with casual disdain. You looked around, embarrassed, but no one seemed to notice. Or maybe they did and just didn’t care.

In his truck, he’d reach over and rest a hand on your thigh, not lovingly, not protectively, but like he was inspecting something. Measuring. Evaluating. His fingers would press into your skin, hard enough to leave a dent. “Gotta keep this from getting out of control,” he’d mutter, almost to himself, like you were some project he was managing, some vessel he needed to sculpt into something acceptable.

Then came the scale.

He bought it one evening after dinner, setting it in your shared bathroom as if it belonged there.

“Step on.” When you hesitated, his voice dipped, smooth but dangerous. “Why? Got something to hide?”

On days the number dropped, he’d grin, pressing kisses to your shoulders, your collarbone, your lips. “See? When you listen to me, things go right, angel.”

His praise felt warm, intoxicating, like sunlight on your skin after a cold spell.

But if the number stayed the same, or worse, crept up, the warmth vanished. He’d go quiet. Distant. His silence stretched through the day like a wall you couldn’t break through. No goodnight kiss. No affection. Just cold detachment, as if you’d failed some unspoken test.

He noticed everything. Every bite, every bloated day, every extra helping. Nothing escaped his attention.

“Two desserts now?” he said once at a dinner party, his voice low but sharp, just for you. “Your greed sickens me.” No one else at the table reacted, your friends were too caught up in their conversations, laughter echoing while your stomach dropped.

Later, after sex, those dizzying highs he was so good at crafting, he’d lie beside you, fingers idly tugging at the flesh on your waist. He’d pinch the soft part of your stomach, chuckling. “I probably weigh less than you at this point.”

You’d flinch, shrinking under the blanket, trying to turn away from him. But his grin only widened.

The next day, you fasted. The hunger was sharp, almost holy, and when he noticed, when he told you how proud he was, you felt a surge of victory. Like his approval meant you’d won something. Like his love was a prize you had to keep earning.

You cried more often. Quietly, mostly. Into your pillow, in the shower, on your way to work. But every time you fell apart, he was there, arms around you like a savior, like the only person who could piece you back together.

“I just want you to be perfect,” he’d whisper into your hair. “You know I love you more when you take care of yourself.”

It sounded like tenderness. It sounded like care.

But it wasn’t about health. And it was never about love.

It was about control. About reshaping you into something that made him feel stronger, more powerful, more admired.

Because to Rafe Cameron, you weren’t just his girlfriend. You were a mirror. And any imperfection he saw in you felt like a flaw in himself. Every pound on your body wasn’t just weight, it was a crack in his image, a threat to the story he was trying to tell the world.

And that’s the cruelest part of it all: how he convinced you, little by little, that your body was never truly yours to begin with.

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hvseung · 11 months ago

Text

unspoken truths - (p. sh)

pairing: skater!sunghoon x skater!reader (f)

genre: childhood friends who grew apart, ewb??

warnings: explicit smut, angst (just a tad), profanity, oral (m recieving), rough sex, cum eating, minor mouth play, fingering, degrading, unprotected sex🫣, minors DNI !

wc: 10.4k

🎵 now playing: love my harder by ariana grande

.｡.:*:.:**:.☆*.｡.:*:.:*.｡.:*:.:**:.☆*.｡.:*:.:*

The cold air inside the ice rink felt refreshing, a stark contrast to the sticky heat of the summer sun just outside the doors. The crisp clack of metal against ice echoes through the rink, polished blades gleaming with the promise of precision and grace. Today was another day of practice, another opportunity to perfect this routine and another chance to prove yourself. It was early, just after dawn, and the rink was almost empty. Almost.

Gliding effortlessly across the ice, Sunghoon was already practicing. His movements were fluid, each glide and turn a seamless display of expertise. They’re flawless, but there’s a certain detached precision to them. He didn’t seem to notice you at first, too focused on his routine, his breath measured, and his eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead. You tightened your grip on your skates and walked to the benches, trying to ignore the knot of tension that always formed in your stomach when Sunghoon was around. You hated Sunghoon, and Sunghoon hated you.

Sunghoon, with his effortless charm and silver-spoon origins, had always been surrounded by luxury. His path to the top was paved with privilege; he never had to struggle or scrape by, his every need catered to from an early age. He glided onto the ice with an air of nonchalance, his routines executed with the kind of polish that came from years of top-tier coaching and expensive training facilities.

In contrast, your journey to the elite level was marked by grit and determination. Each routine was the result of countless hours of practice on less-than-ideal rinks and under the scrutiny of a modest budget. You had worked tirelessly, often sacrificing personal comfort and financial stability to reach the same heights as Sunghoon. Every jump, every spin, was a testament to your resilience and relentless effort.

Off the ice, tensions were even higher. Sunghoon's casual arrogance clashed with your no-nonsense attitude. While he was used to people bending over backwards to accommodate him, you often felt you had to assert your value and demand respect that should have been freely given. Conversations between the two of you, when they happened, were laced with hostility, each remark carefully measured and barbed.

Things weren’t always like that though, in fact, they were the complete opposite. You and Sunghoon used to be very close, a rock to each other on the rink. He was your partner, after all. But as the years went on and pressure to be perfect rose, you grew apart. The distance between you caused a sour taste in both of your mouths, but you stayed supportive to each other nonetheless. Until Sunghoon decided to do a complete 180 one day. He began throwing petty remarks at you whenever he could about whatever he could, and after a while, the remarks turned into forward insults, which you would then reciprocate. You’re not even sure where things went wrong between the two of you, some stupid rumour apparently. But that obviously wasn’t the case, not that you were going to get the truth out of him now.

"Again," Your coach snapped, his voice carrying an edge that cut through the silence. "You need to nail this lift."

You exhaled sharply, rolling your eyes as you approached him. "Is this really necessary? I mean, why can’t he just do this routine with someone else?"

Sunghoon shot you a look that was heavy and that carried opposition. "Maybe if you actually listened for once, we wouldn’t be stuck here."

You planted your hands on your hips, trying to ignore his gaze. "Oh, right. Because clearly, it's all my fault that you keep messing up the timing."

The two of you faced each other, locked in a silent battle that spoke volumes. This wasn’t just about figure skating; it was about clashing wills and unspoken grievances. You both knew that you needed each other to succeed, but the ice was a battleground where that truth was often buried beneath layers of resentment.

Sunghoon's eyes narrowed, and he skated back to the starting position. "From the top, then. And try not to mess up this time."

You forced yourself to take a deep breath, focusing on the smooth, fluid movements that you both needed to execute flawlessly. It was a routine you’d practiced countless times, but today, each misstep felt like a personal affront.

As the music began to play, the same haunting melody you had grown to loathe, you couldn't help but wonder if the real performance was not the one on the ice, but the one you two were constantly rehearsing off it: the delicate dance of patience and frustration, the unspoken challenge of learning to work together, despite the discord that seemed to define every practice. But once again, one of us messes up one too many times.

“This is ridiculous!” Coach pinches the bridge of his nose, obviously at widths end. “Can’t you two just get along? For the sake of the routine.”

“That’s like asking for blood from a stone.” Sunghoon scoffs. Coach lets out a defeated sigh, holding his hands in surrender.

“I’ll see you both next week.” He turns on his heel “And those cones need to go away, can you both put them in the locker rooms?”

Sunghoon grumbles under his breath, not liking the idea of having to be in an enclosed space alone with you, even if it only was for a few seconds. But knowing better than to argue with the coach, he picks up the cones and heads towards the lockers. He can feel you trailing closely behind him, your presence making his skin crawl. He quickens his pace, trying to put some distance between the two of you as you approach the desolate space. You push through the double doors, placing the cones down in the far corner before getting changed. It was the closing hour, so Sunghoon was in a particular rush, and knowing he couldn’t lock up without you was pissing him off.

“You can hurry up, you know. I don’t have all night.” He leans against the wall, folding his arms. But his impatience only makes you move slower. He huffs loudly, annoyed at your attempts to spite him. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Obviously.”

Sunghoon pushes himself off the wall, taking a few steps closer to you. “Why do you have to be so difficult, huh? Can’t you just do what you’re told without being so annoying?”

“Not when you piss me off and rush me. Do you think I’m gonna listen to someone who’s rude to me?” You turn around to face him

He glares at you, his frustration growing by the second. “I’m rude to you because your no better.” he scoffs lowly “You act all sweet and innocent, but I know you, you’re just as stubborn and spiteful as I am.”

“Shut up.” You grit your teeth, turning away from him again to pack your bag.

“No, I won’t shut up, not when you won’t accept the truth.” He tsks, smirking slightly “You’re not the perfect little princess you pretend to be, it’s quite pathetic actually.”

“And your nothing more than a sad loser who thrives off of daddy’s money, isn’t that right?” You coo. This isn’t the first time you’ve brought up Sunghoon’s upbringing to gain the upper hand in an altercation. Sure, it’s a little low, but you deserve to poke at him after everything you’ve done to get here.

Sunghoon’s eyes darken, his jaw clenching. Calling him a loser was one thing, but to bring up his family and his background? “You know I hate it when you bring up money. You think I’m just some spoiled rich kid who had everything handed to him? You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit Sunghoon. You should be grateful, some of us didn’t have money to aid them to where they are now.” You dig.

“You’re just jealous, aren’t you? Jealous that my life was easier than yours and your spiteful because I had money and opportunities you didn’t.” He laughs bitterly, stepping uncomfortably close to you. “You’re jealous that I’m better than you and I’ll always get further in this field than you ever will because I have actual talent. Talent that money didn't buy.”

“Fuck you.” You spit, shoving at his chest to create some more space between your heated bodies.

“Watch your mouth, princess. You don’t get to swear at me because you can’t accept the truth.” He closes that gap between you once again, pressing your back against a wall.

“You’re a lowlife Sunghoon and I fucking hate you.” You spit your venom at him, throwing your bag over your shoulder as you attempt to leave.

“You hate me, yeah? Well, I hate you too! I hate that you think you’re a perfect, good girl when all you do is put others down and tear them apart. You act all nice and innocent, but your just as cruel as I am. You can call me a low life all you want, YN, but at least I’m not a fake, two faced bitch!” He’s visibly angry, his eyebrows furrowed, and his pointed canines show as he retorts back. “don't push me.”

You scoff loudly, trying to cover up the obvious hurt in your voice as his words burn a hole in your chest. Part of you knew he was right, but another part of you knew that you only acted this way towards him because he made you like this. “Or what?”

“Or I might do something we’ll both regret.” Sunghoon’s eyes rake over your features as he pushes you further against the wall, completely closing any gap left between the two of you as his chest presses against yours, gripping your wrists. The tension between you was palpable, the air around you thick with anger and… desire? For a moment, his eyes flicker down to your lips before trailing back up to meet your eyes again, anger still present in both of you.

“Try me.”

That was all it took. All it took for Sunghoon to capture your lips in a rough and forceful kiss, a kiss fuelled by years of anger and pent-up need. His hands release your wrists, moving to grip your hips instead. Once your brain had fully processed the situation, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, kissing him back.

He grips your hips tighter, pulling you closer and swiping his tongue along your lower lip. The simple action elicits a soft moan from you, allowing his tongue to greedily explore your mouth. His fingers begin to trace the outline of your curves and up the length of your arm before settling on your cheek, holding you in place whilst he tilts his head to practically swallow your tongue. The kiss was sloppy and messy, if anyone walked in and witnessed it, they might have internally retched. But it was perfect, every ounce of anger and hatred seemed to dissipate in that one moment, replaced only by the raw and primal need that had been building for years.

“God, I hate you,” He mumbled against your now swollen lips “I hate you so much…”

“I hate you too.” I mumble back, playing with the hair on the back of his nape as he pulls away fully

“Prove it.” Sunghoon can’t help the wicked smirk that forms on his lips, moving his hands back to your hips to allow his thumbs to trace small circles on the skin.

“Prove it?” You push him down onto the bench beneath you, landing with a soft grunt. “You really can’t play nice? can you?”

You hover over him, leaning down to kiss him softly, almost ghosting over his lips. Sunghoons breathe hitches. Despite the tension earlier, even the gentle brush of your lips against his causes his body to react involuntarily, his head tilting back slightly to give you better access. He lets out a soft, almost meek noise at the feeling, his hands brushing against your thighs. But the pleasure is short lasting, as its not long before you’re pushing him away and sinking to your knees. Sunghoon opens his mouth to protest, but the words die in his throat as he gazes down at you, your head dangerously close to his growing bulge.

“Want me to show you how much I hate you?” You whisper breathlessly, his eyes darkening at your compromising position.

“Yeah? You gonna show me, princess?” He tries to control his body’s reaction as you reach for the drawstring of his shorts, but its futile. He lifts his hips up, letting you pull them past his thighs and down to his ankles, only the thin cloth of his underwear separating the two of you. The hardness between his legs was visible, and fuck- were you even going to be able to take all of that?

You lean up a little to kiss the outline of his prominent v-line, causing him to shiver a little. Your finger finds its way underneath his waistband, pulling it back before letting it snap against his skin. He whines, leading your hands to push them down. Without the fabric in the way, nothing was left to your imagination. Sunghoon’s breath hitches as his fingers thread through your hair, tugging on it lightly to encourage you. He can’t quite believe that this is actually happening, and that he’s just letting you do it.

You grasp his dick in your hands, the length making them almost look smaller. Pre-cum leaks from his red tip as he hisses, tipping his head back at the contact he has craved since the second he stepped foot in the locker room alone with you. You circle your finger over his tip, smearing the sticky fluid around before flattening your tongue, lapping up the mess you just made and teasing his sensitive slit. You swirl your tongue around his hot head, making him buck his hips up against your tongue.

“Fuck, YN,” he hisses, gripping your hair a little more to push your mouth closer to him. You close your lips around him, sucking and teasing his tip a little more, eliciting soft whines from him. “Take it deeper”

You open your mouth to protest, to tell him to have some patience, but instead he pushes your head down a little, shoving him further into your mouth and taking advantage of your relaxed throat. You gag at the sudden intrusion, your hands lifting to grip against his thighs. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Sunghoons eyes widen as your mouth envelopes him, a strangled gasp escaping his throat at the sudden sensation. His hips involuntarily buck upwards, his head falling back against the bench once more as he lets out an involuntary moan of pleasure.

He groans as you hollow your cheeks, trying your best to fit every inch in your mouth. Every AGONISING inch. You wrap your hands around his base, rubbing your hands up and down whatever you can’t fit in your mouth. “Yeah, that’s right baby.”

You moan as he tugs at your hair, bucking his hips a little faster to gently fuck your throat. His balls slap against the underside of your chin, causing your eyes to flutter closed as you focus on trying to keep his whole length down. He wraps his palm around your hair, creating a makeshift pony to pull you back.

He slaps his dick against your lips, watching as drool spills past and onto your chin. "You're enjoying this aren't you? You say you hate me but you love sucking my dick, isn't that right?" He pulls at your hair again, making you whimper and nod your head. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

He pushes you back down again, forcing you take every inch this time. Tears brim at your eyes as you slap his thighs a little. "Take it. You can take it, can’t you?"

You moan, his dominance making your pussy clench around nothing. You relax your throat even more as your nose presses against his lower abdomen. Tears spill past your eyelashes as you gag, bobbing your head up and down even more. You're determined at this point, determined to taste him.

You lift my hands to his balls, massaging them softly. Sunghoons head falls back, his breath escaping him in a sharp exhale. The sensation is overwhelming, his body shuddering at the contact. He lets out a soft, strangled moan, his hands clenching at the bench in a desperate attempt to keep himself anchored. He can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, his body coiled tight with tension. His fingers grip your hair more tightly, his breaths coming in sharp gasps as he struggles to hold on.

"Dont stop, fuck you're so good-" He pants out, fucking into your mouth relentlessly. At this point, you're completely wrecked, drool spilling down your chin and onto your chest as hot tears sting your cheeks.

You cry out around his dick, your tongue swiping the underside. You feel his balls tighten in your hands. "Im- fuck im-" he whines a warning (barely), practically ripping your hair out and his head falls back and his back arches. "Fuuuuck! Fuck YN!" he cries out. Who knew Park Sunghoon was so vocal?

You almost double your efforts as his orgasm hits, desperate to milk him for everything he has. His hips jerk forwards as he shoots his load down your throat, the salty liquid overwhelming your tastebuds. He collapses bonelessly against the bench, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His mind is hazy with pleasure, his body thrumming with aftershocks as he tries to regain his composure.

You pull your mouth from him, swallowing his cum with a soft moan. You push yourself up on his thighs, dusting your knees. Sunghoon watches, dazed, his body still sensitive and raw, as he stares up at you from his crumpled position on the bench. "That was- shit YN."

"Yeah, exactly. Fuck you." You snarl, grabbing your bag.

Sunghoon watches, his body still buzzing with the aftermath of their encounter. He manages to sit up, albeit a bit shakily, and looks up at you. His expression is a mixture of anger and confusion, his mind still reeling from the events that had just transpired.

"You... you're just going to leave? After that? You're just gonna walk away like it didn't happen?" He finally manages to find his voice, the anger and confusion evident in his tone.

"What else were we gonna do? Prance around and hold hands?" You scoff, almost laughing bitterly.

Sunghoon's jaw clenches as he considers your words. He knew you were right, that they weren't going to become some sappy couple after one moment of weakness. Still, the thought of you leaving after what just happened was irksome. "No, obviously not. But... we can't just continue acting like we normally do after this."

"Sure, we can. This was a one-time thing to settle some tension. We still hate each other..." You roll your eyes.

His gaze narrows. He's tempted to argue, but he knows deep down that your right. One moment didn't erase years of tension and animosity between the two of you. "Fine. It changes nothing. And I still hate you."

"Good, I still hate you too.”

──────────────────────

It had been almost a week since... whatever the fuck happened in that locker room, and Sunghoon couldn't stop thinking about you. He found himself unable to focus on virtually anything; training, schoolwork, his friends - nothing was able to keep his mind of those 15 minutes you had shared in the locker room. He couldn't understand why it was affecting him so much, why he couldn't shake the memories of your touch? He hated it. He hated that you were able to get under his skin like this. He was a rational person (mostly) who didn't let emotions get in the way of anything, yet here he was, his mind consumed by thoughts of you. It was so frustrating, so infuriating that he couldn't seem to push you away, no matter how hard he tried, especially after everything that had happened in the past.

He tried throwing himself into training even more than usual, hoping the sheer exhaustion would drive you from his mind. But no matter how hard he pushed himself, no matter how much his muscles burned and ached, he couldn't find the peace he was looking for. You were like a ghost, haunting him at every turn.

"Again!" The rink echoed for the tenth time today. "This is ridiculous."

Sunghoon watches with a critical eye as you attempt the jump again, his arms crossed over his chest. He can see your balance is off, your form flawed, and he feels the familiar irritation bubbling up in his chest. How can’t you get that right? He doesn't know why he's even irritated, your form on your jumps doesn't affect him whatsoever. But it's as if he can’t help it. Everything you do just stirs some sort of negative emotion within him.

"Im trying!" You snap back at coach, running your hand through your hair. Your facial features are etched with exhaustion and frustration. This jump was getting to you, and you didn't know why.

Coach's expression turns stern at your snappy reply at him. "Trying isn't good enough, YN. You cannot be skating with that kind of mistake. Focus."

Sunghoon's eyes flicker between you and coach, remaining quiet for the time being. He's not surprised you're exhausted already; your form has been off all day, and it's beginning to wear down on your stamina. He can’t help the shit-eating smirk that plasters his face as he watches you try and fail.... again.

"I think that's enough for today." Coach huffs. "Somethings obviously throwing you off. This needs fixed before regionals, got it?"

Sunghoons arms are still crossed as coach calls it a day. He can see the exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin, and a small twinge of sympathy pulls at his heart. He quickly snuffs the feeling, replacing it with his usual stoic, unreadable expression. But as you make your way the locker rooms, he can’t help but glance in your direction, that sympathy rearing its head again.

He trails idly behind you, his eyes watching the slump in your shoulders. Despite his best efforts, he can't seem to shake the feeling of sympathy gnawing at him. His usual irritation that he feels whenever he's around you are strangely toned down, replaced with the unsettling feeling of concern. He silently follows you as you push the double doors, watching as you start pulling your gear off in silence.

He stands by, watching as you start stripping off your gear. His eyes linger on your sweat-soaked figure, taking in the way the droplets cling to your skin, gleaming under the artificial light of the locker room. You're hyperaware of Sunghoons presence behind you as you strip yourself of your gear, but instead of the usual feeling of discomfort and irritation, knowing you weren't alone in the room was comforting? Especially after today's events.

Until he opened his mouth.

"You were a bit sloppy out there." The smirk evident in his tone. "Your form was horrendous."

You sighed loudly, almost groaning at the sound of his voice cutting through the comforting silence just to spit venom at you. "Not today Sunghoon."

"What? It's the truth. It's pitiful, really. Your jumps were pathetic. You're really going to compete in that state?" He chuckles bitterly

"I said not today." You snap, finally turning to face him. "Can’t you just shut the fuck up, for once?"

He leans against a locker, a smug smile plastered on his face. Your irritation only serves to fuel his amusement. "Why are you being so sensitive today?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. "I'm just pointing out the obvious. You're tired, you're distracted and your form is shot to hell. You're going to embarrass yourself if you don't figure it out before the competition."

You don’t answer and turn away from him, the slump in your shoulders becoming more prominent. You pick your bag up, slinging it over your shoulder before walking to the doors silently. You don't have the patience, nor time for his bullshit today.

"And now you're running away." Sunghoon mutters, unable to stop himself from speaking. "You always do that. I point out an obvious flaw, and you run like a coward." He can't help the hint of irritation in his voice. Despite the sympathy thats clawing at his chest, he can't let himself show weakness. It's just who he is.

He steps in front of the door, blocking your way out. He's unsure why he's even stopping you in the first place. Maybe it's the concern he feels deep inside, maybe it's his own stubborn pride. Whatever it is, he can't seem to stop himself. "Where are you going?" He asks, his eyes narrowing as he looks down at you. "Just ignoring me? Not even going to defend yourself?"

"Please Sunghoon." You avoid his gaze, not wanting to betray the obvious troubled look that’s etched into every line on your face. "Just let me go home."

Sunghoon's irritation falters for a moment as you speak. There's something in your voice - a mix of exhaustion and pleading. It tugs at that sympathy inside him like a fishing rod

"But..." He starts, his voice gruff, his eyes glued to you. "You can't just-" He cuts himself off, not fully understanding his own motivations, not wanting to admit the truth to himself. He lets out a frustrated, resigned sigh, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to calm himself down.

"Can you at least tell me what's been going on with you, lately? Why you're so... off your game." It's an olive branch, more sincere than anything else he's said to you.

"And why would I do that?" You scoff "So you can make fun of my personal life too?"

Sunghoons irritation flares back up at your snippy response, but then he looks at you, really looks at you. He sees your pained expression and the defeated look in your eyes. For once, he can't find it in himself to match your snark with more snark, can't find it in him to kick you while you're down like he usually does.

"Look, I promise... I won't make fun of you. I just..." He takes a deep breath, his expression unusually vulnerable. Is he really going to say this? "I just... I don't like this.” He motions vaguely to you, trying to find the right words “I don't like seeing you like this. It's..." He hesitates, as if he's admitting something he'd rather keep to himself. "It's pissing me off."

"Pissing you off?" You finally look up from the ground. He holds your gaze, his eyes uncharacteristically soft and vulnerable. He's not used to being this open with you - hell, he's not used to being this open with anyone. It's new and unfamiliar, but for some reason... it feels right.

"Yeah, it's pissing me off." He repeats. "I don't like seeing you like this. Exhausted, frustrated, down on yourself. You're... you're supposed to be putting your all into the competition... into being better than me." He adds the last part quietly, almost as an afterthought.

"My parents are divorcing." You sigh, admitting quietly.

"Ah." Is all he can manage to say at first, unsure of how to respond. He's not a naturally comforting person, but his irritation at the situation shifts. He feels... sorry for you?

"There. Happy now?" You roll your eyes, waiting for the snarky comment or dig about your situation, like he always does.

"No," He says bluntly, not even trying to hide the compassion in his voice. He knows, instinctively, that you're trying to push him away, that you're waiting for him to throw some smartass remark or mean response. But he can’t bring himself to do it, to want to. He steps forward, slowly closing the distance between the two of you. He lifts a hand, hesitating for a moment before placing it gently on your shoulder. "I'm sorry."

You tense at his touch. You weren’t expecting any sort of compassion from him, never mind physical comfort. But the comfort makes it real. You look away again as tears sting in your eyes, batting your eyelashes to push them back. He moves his hand from your shoulder to your chin, tilting your face back up.

"Hey, don't look away from me." There's a hint of a command in his voice, but he keeps his tone soft, uncharacteristically comforting. He gently angles your face back up to him, his eyes searching yours. "You don't have to act so tough, you know. Not with me."

"You're the only person I have to be tough with." Your voice cracks, betraying your lack of control when it comes to your emotions. You were about to break.

The sound of your cracking voice has a strange effect on Sunghoon. Instead of the usual smug satisfaction that would accompany your emotional turmoil, he just feels... an aching in his chest. Seeing you so vulnerable, so open and bare, and knowing that you're only like this with him does something to him, and he's not sure how to handle it. He lifts his hand to your cheek, cradling it gently. "You can let go. I won't think any less of you."

As soon as the words of permission fall past his lips, a soft sob escape yours. It's as if your heart tore in half to allow all the emotions, all the frustration and anger that had been building up, flow out freely. You lift your hands to your face, almost shielding yourself from him, hiding from him.

The sight of you crying, the sound of your sobs echoing through the empty locker room- it goes against everything he knows about you. You're supposed to be strong and fierce, always giving as good as you get. He's never seen you like this before, completely shattered. But he's also the one you've decided to show this side to. Despite everything, you trust him enough to bear it all without judgement.

He steps even closer to you, gently pulling your hands away from your face and taking them in his own, his thumbs brushing against your knuckles in a soothing gesture. A strange, almost protective feeling washes over him, urging him to comfort you further. So, it's as if his arms move on their own when he reaches out to pull you into his chest, gently rubbing your back with one hand and threading his fingers through your hair with the other.

You don't know what even possessed you to allow yourself to be this vulnerable in front of him, and after a while, you calm down. You attempt to pull back, but it's as if he can’t bring himself to let you go. He's not sure if it's the vulnerability that you've just shown, or that damned aching in his chest, but he just needs to hold you for a little longer.

And you don't resist. You relax against him completely, nuzzling into his chest almost. You needed this. You needed this comfort, and if Sunghoon was the only person willing to give it then so be it.

He feels you nuzzle against his chest, and his grip on you tightens slightly in response. He can almost feel the tension leaving your body, the way you're completely relaxed against him. And it feels good. It feels right. He's never felt this protective, this intimate, with anyone before. But with you... it feels natural. Almost easy.

"I'm sorry." You speak softly, lifting your head to meet his gaze. He's pitiful, and it's genuine. The sorrow on your face sparks a pang of guilt deep inside him. He's never really seen you look this this broken.

"Don't apologise." He says, his voice gruff but gentle. He lifts his hand from your back to brush away some of the tear stains on your cheeks. "You have nothing to apologise for."

He holds your gaze, his eyes searching yours, taking in every detail. The way your lashes are still wet with tears, the way your hair falls over your eyes, the way your bottom lip trembles slightly. He's not quite sure why he's still holding onto you so tightly, why he's still caressing you so gently. It's like his body is moving on its own, responding to all his confusing, new feelings.

Your arms practically move on their own, lifting to cup his cheeks, the intimacy of the situation stirring an in-ignorable need to touch him, to feel him. "Sunghoon..."

The sound of his name falling from your lips, whispered so softly, sends a shiver down his spine. The new, almost unfamiliar vulnerability in your eyes, the way you're suddenly touching him so gently... it ignites something within him, that same protective, almost possessive feeling that's been stirring in his chest for the past 20 minutes. And as your hand presses against his cheek, he finds himself leaning into it, seeking your touch. His eyelids flutter shut as he savours the feeling of your fingers against his skin.

Your body fights with itself. It fights the urge to push him away and never show your face to the world again, and the opposing urge to lean in and do something you will probably- no, most definitely regret. But Sunghoon can practically feel the turmoil warring inside you, the conflicting needs playing out on your features.

He knows he shouldn't act on these unfamiliar feelings, shouldn't give in to the need that's threatening to overcome him. But the way you're looking at him, the way you're holding onto him so mildly, it's as if he loses all control over himself. And then he's moving forward, closing the already diminished distance between them.

He mirrors your touch, cupping your cheeks to smoothly guide you closer. He pauses for a moment, giving you a chance to pull away if you want to… but you don't. You stay exactly where you are, looking up at him with an expression he's never seen on your face before. And then he leans in, closing the remaining distance between you, pressing his lips to yours in a tender kiss.

This kiss was different to the one you shared in this exact same spot just last week. That kiss was filled with anger and sexual frustration, but this kiss was meaningful. It was romantic, an intimate connection between the two of you that went beyond physical at this point. Sunghoon doesn't care about the context in which you've kissed before. He doesn't care about the hatred and hostility that usually exists between the two of you. In this moment, all he cares about is the feel of your lips against his. Nothing else matters.

He pulls away after a while, his lips parting from yours with a soft, wet sound. He keeps his face close to yours, his breath warm against your cheek. He gently runs a thumb over your bottom lip, the pad of the digit tracing the soft, plump flesh.

"YN..." He whispers, his voice hoarse, his breathing ragged. It almost sounds as if he's in pain, as if he's struggling to control his own emotions. His eyes bore into yours, searching for something. He's not sure what he's looking for, but right now, with you so close to him, he feels... desperate. Desperate for something he can't even name. "What the fuck are you doing to me?"

"I could ask you the same question." You mutter, before pulling his lips to yours once again.

──────────────────────

Sunghoon's mind wouldn't shut off. Every time he closed his eyes, images of you flooded his mind. He relived their moment over and over, the memories replaying like a broken record in his head. He tried counting sheep, meditating, even reading a book - nothing worked. He was exhausted and losing his fucking mind.

He couldn't believe he was doing this; can't believe he was so desperate that he's resorted to texting you. He knows it's a bad idea, knows that it's bound to lead to more hassle than it's worth, but he can't seem to stop himself. He types out a quick message, his thumb hovering over the send button for a few moments before he finally presses it.

Part of him is hoping, no- praying that you're asleep and won't respond. But another part, a small, traitorous part, is hoping you are awake and might answer him. He doesn't want to admit it, even to himself, but he craves your attention. It doesn't matter what kind of attention he's getting; he just needed it.

The notification jolts you a little as you just settle into sleep. You groan, reaching for your phone to turn the ringer off, but the contact on the notification momentarily stops me. You stare at your phone screen, eyes zeroing in. You hadn’t expected him to text you. You never texted each other, unless it was for information about training. Seeing his name causes something in you to stir, a mix of confusion, and as much as it pain you to admit it, hope.

SH: Hey, you awake? (12:18am)

You bite your lip, opening the message. You debated answering, weighing out the pros and cons. Which was ridiculous. It's just Sunghoon, what’s the big deal? But you had opened the message now, and you weren't heartless enough to ignore him, even if you wanted to.

YN: Unfortunately, what do you want? (12:20am)

Sunghoon lets out a sigh when he sees that you're awake, typing out a quick reply.

SH: Don't sound so enthusiastic, I could almost mistake it for kindness. (12:21am)

He leans back on his pillows, waiting for her response. He can't believe he's actually doing this, actually talking to you like your friends or something. But now he's stumped, he hadn't expected the conversation to get this far.

Should he just be direct and ask you to come over? Should he come up with some stupid excuse to lure you to his apartment? He hesitates for a few more moments before sending another message.

SH: Come over. (12:25am)

You mentally curse yourself as the back of your knees press against the cold metal of the bed frame as your feet dangle over the edge of the mattress. Why did you even get up for this? "Are we just gonna sit here?"

Sunghoon eyes you silently from the other side of the bed, his expression giving away nothing. He's not sure what possessed him to text you, let alone ask you to come over. But now that you're here, he can't deny the thrill that's coursing through him. "Do you have anything better to be doing?"

"Yeah, actually, sleeping?"

He rolls his eyes at your response. Even now, you still irritate him. But then he notices the way you dangle your legs over the edge of the bed, looking small and almost vulnerable. His eyes rake over your form, taking in the way your oversized sweater swallows your slender frame. You look softer like this, less like the stubborn girl he's used to seeing every week.

"You could've slept. No one forced you to come over." He pats the space next to him on the bed. "But now that you're here, you might as well make yourself comfortable."

"What do you think this is?" You scoff a little.

His eyes flash with a mixture of annoyance and amusement at your response. "You always have to argue, don't you? I'm just offering you a comfortable place to sit. Nothing more." He pats the bed again, gesturing for you to come closer.

You scan his face for something... anything? A smirk, a falter in his gaze, but his face remains stoic. OH, SO HES SERIOUS. "Im fine over here."

Sunghoon lets out a huff of frustration at your stubbornness. Why couldn't you just do as your told for once? "Come. here." He pats the bed a second time, his voice taking on a commanding tone. He doesn't understand why but right now, he wants you closer. Closer than the width of his king size bed would allow.

You roll your eyes, crawling over to sit next to him cross your legs and letting your knees brush against his thighs briefly. You and Sunghoon had known each other for years, even if most of those years weren't pleasant, but you had never been in such an intimate space like his bedroom before, and it nerved you. "Happy?"

He tries to ignore the way his chest clenches as your knees brush against his thighs. He tries to tell himself it's just a physical reaction, an involuntary response to the feeling of your body against his, but he knows deep down that there's something more to it.

When you finally settle next to him on the bed, he leans back against the headboard, eyes studying your face, noticing things he's never noticed before. Your eyelashes, the way they fan out against your skin. The delicate curve of your nose, the rosy hue of your lips. "Yeah, I am."

"Well, I’m glad you're enjoying yourself." Your voice shakes a little at the proximity. This is normal, right? Giving your sworn rival a blowjob in the locker rooms, breaking down in front of him in the same said locker room, then coming to his house 5 days later? You try to convince yourself, but your attempts are futile.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing your arm, feeling the softness of your skin. He's acutely aware of the fact that you're in his bed, that he has you this close, this vulnerable, and for once, he doesn't feel the need to provoke you. Instead, he's content just sitting in silence with you, his fingers continuing to trace your skin, feather-light.

He lets his fingers trail up your arm and across your collarbone, tracing the line of where your sweater meets your skin. He can feel the heat radiating off your body, the faint scent of your shampoo filling his nose. He wants to lean closer, to bury his face in your neck and just stay like that indefinitely, but he reigns in the impulse.

"Sunghoon what are you-"

He doesn't answer, his fingers continuing their path up your body. His hand moves up to your neck, gently wrapping around your throat. He applies just the slightest pressure, his thumb grazing against your pulse point. He can feel your heart beating faster under his fingers, and he loves it. Loves knowing that even with your tough exterior, you're just as affected by him as he is by you. So affected that it pisses him off. He wants more. He wants everything. "You're so confusing, you know that?"

"I-I'm confusing?" You can’t help but trip on your own words, the feeling of his fingers wrapped so delicately around your throat making your palms sweat. "You're the one touching me like this..."

His fingers tighten slightly around your throat, his hand now fully encircling the length of it. He can feel your breath hitch and sees the flutter of your eyelashes, the only indication of your discomfort. His eyes lock onto yours. He's always loved how expressive your eyes are, how they seem to mirror your every thought. They're filled with a mixture of confusion and desire, a combination that makes something in him stir. "And you're enjoying it, aren't you?"

You open your mouth to speak, but it's as if the words die on their way out, a meek "No" being the only thing that falls from your lips.

"No?" He repeats, the word practically dripping with mockery. He tightens his hold on your throat, using his grip to tilt your head up, forcing you to look at him. His eyes roam over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks and widened eyes. He sees the mixture of defiance and vulnerability in your gaze, the way your lip trembles slightly under his grip. His own body responds to your helplessness, a heat pooling in his gut as he imagines all the things he could do to you in this state.

"Hoon..." You whine softly, the heat between your thighs too much to ignore now. Your panties were practically soaked through at this point, and as much as it killed you to admit it, this was affecting you.

He's unable to suppress the shiver that runs down his spine when you whine his name. Hearing his nickname in your voice, so soft and needy, practically drives him crazy. He tightens his grip on your throat again, relishing in the way the pressure makes your body squirm. "Yes, baby-girl?"

He lifts his thumb, ghosting it across your bottom lip again. He can't help but notice the way your lip trembles and parts slightly at his touch and he can't resist the urge to press his thumb deeper into your mouth. He wants to hear more of those little whimpers, wants to see you completely undone. He runs his thumb across your tongue, feeling it swirl around the digit. He can't believe you're letting him do this to you, that you're submitting instead of your usual resistance. It emboldens him, makes him want to push you further, to see how far you'll let him go.

"You have no idea how pretty you look like this." He murmurs, his voice hoarse with desire. He releases your throat, bringing his other hand up to cup your chin instead as his other thumb still rests against your tongue. He forces your head back, angling it so that your neck is fully exposed to him. You whimper softly, your lip quivering underneath his finger as he pushes it a little further into your mouth, your tongue flicking up to meet the salty digit.

Sunghoon can't believe the sight before him, can't believe that he's seeing you like this, the tough girl that reciprocates his hatred, reduced to nothing but a whimpering mess from just a finger in her mouth. He can see the conflicting emotions warring on your face, the part of you that wants to fight back, to resist the desire that's coursing through you. But he also sees the way your legs shift restlessly on the covers, and he knows you're only holding back because you're stubborn and prideful. He pushes his finger deeper into your mouth, forcing you to take more as he leans in, his lips hovering just above your ear. "That's it, give in,"

You curse at the way your legs involuntarily and almost instantly spread the second his fingers meet the plump flesh of your inner thigh, the fabric of your pants riding up to reveal the expanse of smooth skin that's usually hidden underneath layers of clothing. You can’t help but let out the shaky breath that you didn't even realise you were holding as he traces small, delicate patterns, dangerously close to your pussy that was practically leaking through onto his bedsheets.

Sunghoon can't help but relish in the fact that he's the one who's making you react like this, that no matter how much you push him away, you still subconsciously crave his touch. His fingers continue to trail up your inner thighs, his touch deliberately light, drawing soft noises from your throat. He loves the way your body betrays your attempts to keep some semblance of control, no matter how hard you try.

"Sunghoon, please-" You whine as he retracts his finger from your mouth.

"Please what?" He teases, his fingers still tracing patterns around your sensitive inner thighs, always stopping short of where you needed him the most. He knows exactly what you want, he can hear it in the way you whine, but he wants to hear you say it. He wants to hear you beg him; he wants you to give up your pride for him.

He gives your inner thigh a quick smack, his hand coming down harshly on the sensitive flesh there. You jolt forwards at the sudden contact, moaning softly. "Touch you where?"

"Touch my pussy Hoon, please." You whimper.

He pushes you down onto the mattress, manoeuvring to hover about you. He reaches one hand down to spread your sticky thighs, pressing his other palm beside your head. "That was easy, wasn't it?"

His hand finally connects with your aching core, teasing you through the thin material. "Fuck, baby. You're so wet, you're practically drenched through"

He pushes the material to the side, instantly slipping a singular digit into to your pulsing hole without giving you a second to register his actions, ca8using your head to spin. But he doesn't move the digit. "Beg for it."

"What? No-"

He gives your thigh another harsh smack, making you slam your legs closed around his palm, whining. "I said beg for it. Beg for me to touch your pussy."

"Please don’t make me-"

He gives you another smack, harder this time, and relishes the way your legs clamp down around his hand, trying to get some friction, any friction "Do you really think you're in a position to make demands?" He scoffs. "Beg."

"Please Hoon... please touch my pussy." You whine meekly. As soon as the words leave your lips, he moves the finger thats buried deep inside you, plunging it in and out.

"Thats a good girl." He smirks, his bottom lip tucked snuggly between his pointed canines. You can’t even reply, your mind too clouded with pleasure to come up with a response to his praise.

Sunghoon lets out a huff, taking in the look on your face, the way your eyes are squeezed shut in pleasure, your mouth open and panting. It's a satisfying sight, and one that he wants to take advantage of. He continues moving his fingers inside you, adding another thick digit and applying a little more pressure to your clit, enjoying the soft gasps and moans that escape you.

He can tell by the way your body trembles and the whiny, breathless noises falling from your lips, that you're close. He can feel it in the way your thighs squeeze around his hand, the way your walls clamp down on his fingers. "Thats it," He increases the pace of his fingers "are you gonna be a good girl and cum for me?"

"Mhm- wanna be a good girl." You whine, arching your back.

He lets out a moan, his fingers starting to work a little faster. He can feel the way your body starts to tense up, preparing for it. He wants to see you fall apart completely, wants to feel you come unraveled under his touch. "Then cum"

Your orgasm hits you like a ten-ton truck. Your hips stutter forwards and a guttural moan rips from your chest. "Fuuuck!"

Sunghoon watches the way your face twists in ecstasy, the way your eyes roll back, and your hands clawing at the sheets beneath you. He guides you through it, his fingers slowing until you come down from the high. He reluctantly pulls his fingers from you, bringing the glistening digits to his plump lips and sucking them clean with a chesty moan.

But he isn't done, not even close.

He brings his hands to the bottom of your top, his fingers slowly tracing the hem, teasing the exposed skin of your stomach.

"This needs to come off." He mutters, his hands pulling at the material, trying to lift it over your head. He's impatient, his desire overriding any attempts at gentleness. He wants to see all of you, wants to feel your bare skin against his hands and lips.

As he finally gets the top off, he lets his eyes rake over your exposed body. He can't help but let out an appreciative moan, his hands coming up to grip at your waist, his fingers almost indenting into the soft flesh. He looks at you, the way your chest is heaving with each breath, he looks at the way your cheeks are still flushed from your previous release, and he knows he needs more.

You can’t help but shift uncomfortably under his heavy gaze, practically feeling the holes being burnt into your skin. And Sunghoon notices the way you shift, how your body tenses under his scrutiny. He's not trying to make you uncomfortable, he's just trying to take in every bit of you, to memorise every inch of your skin, to commit it all to memory.

"You're so beautiful" He whispers, his voice full of reverence, his fingers tracing the curve of your bra. He leans down, attaching his lips to your collarbone, his mouth trailing a path down your chest. He can hear your breathing pick up again, can feel your heart hammering in your chest. He's gentle, his lips and tongue exploring every inch of your skin, and his hands following suit.

He pulls himself further on top of you so that he's almost completely covering you, his weight pressing you down into the bed. He continues his path down your body, his mouth and hands working in tandem, every touch and caress designed to heighten your pleasure. He can't help the possessive desire that rises within him. He wants to leave his mark on you, wants to claim you in a way that no one else ever will. He bites down on the skin above your breast, enough to leave a small bruise, causing you to arch from the bed with a soft whine.

He can't get enough of the way you respond to his touch, the little gasps and whimpers that escape your lips fuelling his desire. He moves lower, his mouth now on your stomach, his tongue tracing the dip of your belly button, his teeth scraping across the sensitive skin. He wants to take his time, to savour every moment, but the need in his body, the need to claim you completely, is growing harder to ignore with each passing second.

"Sunghoon," you whisper with soft moan, grabbing his attention "I can’t wait any longer."

"Neither can I." He mutters, his voice low and rough. His lips find yours, his tongue delving into your mouth as he kisses you hungrily, his hands roaming your body, everywhere he can reach. His hands slide down to your hips, hoisting them up so that you're pressed even closer to him, his bulge poking against your throbbing pussy as he kisses you feverishly. You tangle your hand in his soft lock, tugging at the roots.

"That's it," He moans lowly, mumbling against your lips. "Pull harder." He grinds his clothed dick against your clit, making you hiss and tug at his hair again, harder this time.

He lets out another low moan, the feeling of your hands in his hair and your body against his almost too much to handle. "Keep pulling." He instructs you, his voice low and rough. He ruts against you harder, watching as your juices stain a wet patch on his sweats. It's so dirty, filthy even, but he fucking loves it.

You continue to tug on his hair, arching into his touch, the combination making his head spin. He lets out a strangled noise, his hands gripping at your hips as he starts to grind against you harder, faster.

"Fuck me Sunghoon, need to feel you deep inside me" You pant, rolling your hips gently against his as you grow more impatient by the second.

Sunghoons breathe hitches at your words, the raw desire behind them almost too much to handle. He lets out a low, guttural groan, his eyes trailing over the curves of your body once more, his hands leaving bruises on your hips.

"Are you sure?" He asks, even though his body is already screaming to take you, to claim you completely.

"Please." You meet his gaze, biting your lips as you continue to gently roll your hips against his. He doesn't waste another second before pushing his sweats down, his hard cock springing up.

His tip was angry and leaking pre-cum. You whine at the sight, swiping the beads the continued to pour out before bringing it to your lips. But before you can do anything more, he rolls over so that you're on top of him, your body straddling his. His hands move to your waist, holding you in place as he bucks his hips up, running the veiny underside of his dick between your folds.

He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, rutting against you like this a few more times before positioning his tip at your soaking hole. He slowly guides you down onto him, his eyes locked with yours. Sunghoon felt big when he was down your throat, but fuck, he was practically splitting you in half right now. He groaned as you sucked him in, watching as you tip your head back with a loud whine.

"Are you okay?" He mumbles, trying his best not to moan and ruin his moment of concern.

You nod, manoeuvring yourself to your knees to sink down on him more, taking him deeper. Sunghoon, bucks his hips up involuntarily, causing you to jolt forward with a loud moan.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he hisses, parting your legs to watch his dick disappear inside of you. "You feel so good."

You moan loudly, biting your lip to suppress any whines or whimpers that might give away your slight discomfort. He felt good, really good. But he was so big, big enough that it was a little painful.

Despite your best efforts, he can tell that you're having a hard time taking him, that he's bigger than you're used to. He lets out a low moan, his hands moving to gently soothe your hips, trying to help you ease onto him carefully. His eyes are locked onto yours, taking in the way your face twists with the mix of pleasure and pain. He tries to go slow, to be gentle with you, not wanting to cause you any unnecessary pain. But he can only hold back so much, his body begging him to just lose control and take you as hard and fast as he can.

You gasp once you're fully seated on him, deliciously stretched and full to the brim with dick. You circle your hips, trying to adjust to him before lifting up a little and bouncing on him. You were slow at first, almost painfully slow, but once you had become accustomed to his size, nothing was stopping you.

“Oh fuck,” Sunghoon groans, tilting his head back as you slam down against his thighs, the wet squelching noise that emits from you almost making him dizzy. His back arches against the mattress, his eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of your hot walls wrapped so snuggly around his dick. “Ah, that’s- yeah just like that.”

You moan loudly, muttering soft curses under your breath as you continue your vigorous movements. Sunghoon lifts his hips, thrusting them up to meet yours, causing your body to jolt as he reaches that one pressure point deep inside you that sends you reeling. “Right there!”

“Yeah? Right there? Is that the spot baby?” He groans, gripping your hips to keep them still as he thrusts up into you relentlessly. You practically fall limp, your chest crashing against his as his tip kisses your cervix over and over again. “Fuck you feel so good, so fucking good princess.”

“D-don’t stop- gonna cum!” You cry out, reaching up to claw your nails at his bare chest, leaving red and angry bumps in their wake. But Sunghoon doesn’t have the time, nor the ability to care about the pain.

“I'm not gonna stop, not gonna stop.” He groans, before flipping you both over. He positions you on your hands and knees before pushing your chest against the mattress and slamming back into you, knocking the breath straight out of your lungs.

He continues his onslaught and you can feel the tightening in your stomach become almost unbearable. “Fuck I’m cumming!”

“No, your not.” He slams his palm down on the soft, plush skin of your ass as it jiggles against his lower abdomen before stopping his movements. You whine as you feel your release slipping from you.

“No!” You cry out, almost choking out a sob.

“Beg.”

“What?”

“Beg me to let you cum.” The shit-eating grin plastered on his face is prominent. Even if you can’t see it, you can hear it in his voice. He was loving this. Loving the power that he had over you and loving the fact that as much as you don’t to, you will follow his commands.

“Please let me cum.” You whine

“Oh come on. That was pathetic. Beg like you mean it.” He slaps your ass again, making you cry out.

“Please! Please let me cum! Please Sunghoon!” You circle your hips against his abdomen, causing him to hiss.

“Good fucking girl.” He slaps your ass again, harder this time, before moving his hips again. He pounds into you, his balls slapping against your clit. You’re teetering on the edge of release, and you’re not sure how much longer you can hold back.

“Can I cum? Fuck, please! Can I cum?” You plead, gripping onto the headboard in front of you.

At this point, Sunghoon can’t even deny his own release, never mind yours. “Cum baby. Cum for me like a good girl.”

At that was it. You shriek as he slams into you one last time, hitting your g-soot deliciously and sending you completely over the edge. Your pussy clamps down on him before fluttering as you cum, your juices spilling down your thighs.

“Fuuuuck!” Sunghoon cries, shooting his warm load into you. Into you. He stays nestled in the warmth of your velvety walls before reluctantly pulling out with a filthy squelch. He watches as his cum almost instantly pools out of you, also running down your thigh. He smirks, using two fingers to scoop up the liquid before leaning over and shoving the fingers into your mouth.

You gag at the unexpected intrusion, but once you realise what he’s doing, you clamp your lips down, sucking and swirling your tongue around the digits, letting the salty liquid flood over your tastebuds. You moan at the taste, almost craving more. He slips his fingers out and swipes the saliva down your cheek.

“Now this. This is not a one-time thing to settle tension.” He says, flopping down onto the mattress beside you, running his fingers through his sweaty hair that’s clinging desperately to his forehead.

“No way.”

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@ hvseung, 2024. do not repost or reuse in anyway. thankyou :)

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#enhypen #kpop #fanfic #fanfiction #sunghoon #park sunghoon #sunghoon smut #enhypen smut #kpop smut

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irisposts · 9 months ago

Text

Embers of Us

summary | you plot to kill your uncle aemond and avenge your fallen brother.

paring: aemond x neice!reader

warning: kissing, p n v, very smutty oh and some angst, spoilers for s1e10

note: i haven't written smut in like a year. bare with me cus it's pretty ass.

word count: 2.8k

not edited

Gold coins fall into the rat catcher’s palm, his fingers quiver as you release the last two. The cold steel of your gaze pierces through him.

“Now leave,” you command, your voice sharp and hushed.

He nods hurriedly, retreating into the shadows from which he came. Your eyes lift to the second floor—the royal floor.

You ascend the stairs silently, each step filled with the weight of your purpose. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, as memories flood your mind—of Luke, of the war, of what was taken from your mother. The dagger beneath your cloak feels heavier with each breath.

When you reach Aemond’s door, your fingers shake as they graze the frame. Taking a sharp breath, you push it open just enough to peek inside. And there he is—Aemond Targaryen, your estranged uncle. The man that would meet his fate by the end of your dagger.

The room is bathed in the warm glow of scattered candles, their flames flickering against the stone walls. Aemond sits at a table, his back to you, his silver hair catching the light. He doesn’t turn when you slowly close the door behind you and seal the space between you.

Each step you take is measured, deliberate, as you approach. As you reach him, your hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of his silver hair. You yank his head back sharply and raise your dagger to his throat, the cold steel pressing against his skin. He hisses a breath through his teeth, unfazed.

“Niece,” Aemond murmurs, a low, cruel chuckle rumbling from his throat.

You tighten your grip on his hair, your voice taut with fury. “Uncle.”

Aemond raises his hands, a gesture of surrender. “Easy.”

Your wrist moves to swipe across his neck and then, with a swift move, he disarms you effortlessly–your blade goes clattering to the floor.

Before you can react, he’s on his feet, facing you with your own weapon pointed at your chest. You unsheathe another dagger, stepping back, trying to create distance.

His gaze locks onto yours, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Did Rhaenyra send you to do this, or are you foolish enough to act on your own?”

“My mother—your rightful queen—” you spit, your eyes burning with rage. Aemond scoffs at the words, but you press on. “—has nothing to do with this. I came for Luke.”

Something flickers in Aemond’s expression, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. His face hardens, cold and controlled. He steps slowly around the chair, voice lowering but steady.

“Luke was... a casualty of war,” he says, his tone almost detached. “War does not care for innocence. I am a soldier, and soldiers do what must be done. Blood is spilled, and it claims whoever stands in its path.”

“Casualty of war?” you seethe, your voice a mix of anguish and fury. “He was just a messenger! He wasn’t a threat to you, and yet you—” Your voice cracks, your chest tightening.

Aemond’s face hardens further, his hand drifting toward his eyepatch as if by reflex. “The war,” he snaps, “began the day I lost my eye to your brother’s blade. A debt was owed.”

Your heart pounds in your ears, your hands shaking as anger courses through you. “But his life?” you choke, your voice faltering as tears well in your eyes. “He was just a boy!” You place a hand on your chest and spit through gritted teeth. “…We had nothing to burn.”

Aemond’s gaze softens for a brief moment, the flicker of guilt in his eye is buried beneath layers of pride, but it’s there.

You steady yourself, swallowing the sob threatening to escape. With trembling hands, you tilt your chin high and raise the dagger once more, whispering, "Se iā daor." (And now, you must die.)

You plant your feet firmly and charge towards him. Aemond catches your wrist midair, but you’re ready. With your free hand, you unsheathe another hidden dagger and swipe it across his side, the blade cutting through the fabric of his clothes and into his skin. A grunt escapes his lips as he staggers back, and the two of you tumble to the ground in a fierce struggle. The cold stone presses against your bodies as you grapple, breaths heavy and ragged, hands clawing and striking.

Aemond throws a punch, but you block it just in time, your arm bracing against the blow. In the chaos of tangled limbs, your fingernails catch his face, tearing away the eyepatch.

Everything stills.

Aemond freezes, his breath hitching as your gaze falls to the scarred, hollow space where his eye once was. But instead of a void, a sapphire gleams in its place, glowing faintly in the candlelight.

For the first time in years, you see the familiar tremor that runs through him. Fractured memories of child Aemond floods your mind, the Aemond you had once comforted when no one else dared to look at him.

Your heart slows as you reach your hand out to trace the scar and the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. But just as your fingers near him, Aemond’s hand shoots out, grasping your wrist.

His grip is firm, but not harsh. He holds your hand there, inches from his face, and the tension in the air thickens, the crackling candles the only sound between you.

The memory returns again—the quiet moments after Aemond had lost his eye. When you had been the only one to ask if he was in pain. The only one to sneak past your mother and Alicent to see to him—to offer him kindness when others turned away. That boy still exists, somewhere beneath the man who hovers before you now.

Aemond’s remaining eye flickers with something unreadable. Guilt, sorrow—perhaps, buried beneath his pride. “I’m letting you live,” he murmurs. “I won’t give you or your mother the satisfaction of my death. Nor will I give my brother the pleasure of yours.”

He loosens his grip, gently releasing your wrist. The violence that once filled the room moments ago now dissipates like smoke.

You continue to lay on the cold stone floor as grief overwhelms you, your body withers as bitter tears stream down your face. Damn him. Damn him for not giving you the chance to avenge Luke.

“No,” you sob, weakly striking his chest, the blows are soft and ineffective. Aemond doesn’t stop you. “No!” you cry again, your words spilling out in a broken mantra. “No.”

Aemond watches you, his expression unreadable. But something shifts in his gaze, something softer, more fragile than before. For a fleeting moment, you think you see unshed tears glistening in his eye, but the moment passes quickly.

In an unexpected gesture, Aemond reaches down and brushes a silver strand of hair from your face. He tucks it gently behind your ear. His thumb then swipes at the wetness beneath your eyes, lingering a moment too long. His fingers ghost against your skin.

His eye lowers, tracing the curve of your lips. His thumb brushes softly across your bottom lip. You taste the faint salt from your tears. He pauses, his eye searching yours, waiting—asking without words.

More tears threaten to spill, your heart torn between bitter betrayal and the love you had buried deep within.

But agaisnt your better judgement, you allow yourself to relax.

And then his lips meet yours, soft and careful, as if there’s a possibility you’d reject him. But you won't. You exhale a quiet sigh, melting into the warmth of his touch.

The kiss holds a thousand unspoken truths. It’s not just born of passion, but of release—of grief, regret, and love. For all the war, all the bloodshed and losses, the love between you had always lingered, hidden beneath layers of denial. Now, at this moment, it rises to the surface, undeniable.

Your fingers slip into his hair, pulling gently at the roots. Aemond’s hand cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he deepens the kiss with quiet desperation.

For this fleeting moment, the storm outside the walls, the weight of the crown, and the shattered bonds of family fade into nothing. It is just the two of you, suspended in this moment where the war; your mother’s throne, and the blood between you are now distant echoes.

Aemond breaks away from the kiss and leans back. You watch carefully as he strips his top half bare. Your eyes roam over every inch of his chiseled form, taking in the smooth curve of his waist and the firm lines that make up his frame. Your gaze lingers on the wound of your doing. It sits right above his pelvis, off to the side. It's not a deep cut, but it left specks of blood on his pale skin.

Your fingers tremble as they reach for the strings of your top. Taking a shallow breath, you begin to remove your outer clothing. Aemond senses your anticipation and helps you out of your trousers. His touch sends shivers down your bare skin, as your naked form is fully revealed for his eyes to bare.

Aemond slots himself between your legs and peppers kisses across your face, neck, chest, and abdomen. His silver hair tickling your skin as he continues downward. He slides his face in between your thighs, leaving soft kisses on either side.

He glances up at you for approval once more. Your cheeks flush and you give a quick nod before laying back down completely.

Aemond delicately parts your legs, his rough calloused hands gently brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs. A low moan escapes your lips as his skilled fingers spread you apart. He begins to massage and tease at your bud. Your back arches in pleasure as Aemond flattens his tongue and slowly licks you up in a long, sensual strip.

"Gods," you mutter breathlessly.

Both of your hands are in his hair now, tight and pushing him deeper into your heat.

Aemond is undoubtedly skilled. You can't help but feel a twinge of envy as you wonder if some woman from his past, maybe someone from his court, had taught him these tricks. He moans against you and a rush heat of heat glides up your body. Your eyes roll back, as he continues to devou you like you’re the last meal on earth.

You move a peice of silver out of his face—you want to see everything.

Your fingers tangle in Aemond's hair once more as waves of pleasure course through your body.

His tongue moves with expert precision, alternating between teasing flicks and long, languid strokes. Your hips buck involuntarily, pressing yourself closer to his eager mouth.

His hands grip your thighs firmly, holding you in place as he increases his pace. The room fills with the sound of your ragged breathing and muffled moans. You feel the familiar tension building deep within your belly, threatening to overflow at any moment.

Aemond reaches towards your breast, his hand massaging the mound. His fingers pinching and twisting at your hardened nipple. His tongue swirls and darts in and out of your wet heat, in perfect unison with his fingers. “Aemond.”

Just as you approach the precipice, Aemond pulls away, leaving you gasping and desperate for release. His mismatched eyes, one sapphire gem and one his familiar ocean blue, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race.

His lips glisten in the light with your slit.

You watch as he stands tall and wrangles himself out of his trouser. Now, completely baring himself to you as you do him. Aemond's manhood is long and thick, standing with attention and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. You note the thick veins along his shaft. Your mouth waters at the thought of tasting him.

You chew on your lips in anticipation as Aemond brings himself back down to your level and hovers above your face. You both don’t pay any mind to your centers brushing against one another as he situates himself between your legs. Both of you are too caught in each other’s gaze.

Instinctively, your fingers reach up again to trace the scar across his eye—the one that defines so much of who he is now.

This time, he allows it. His face melts into your outstretched palm, eyes fluttering closed as your thumb brushes the sensitive area near the socket of his lost eye.

His hair falls like a sheer veil, cloaking the two of you. “iksā gevie” You say the words so softly it’s a mere whisper. (You’re beautiful.)

Aemond's eye soften and he gently removes your hand from his face.

But instead of letting go, he lifts your wrist to his lips and kisses the thin skin there. His lips linger for a moment before he lowers your hand back down to rest at your side. Aemond grabs himself between you both and positions himself at your entrance.

You mentally and physically prepare yourself for what is about to happen, knowing it is an act of betrayal. Not only to your family, but to yourself.

Slowly, he enters you with the tip of his cock, causing a simultaneous moan from the both of you. Him from feeling the warmth of your walls and you from the pleasurable intrusion. You watch as his hips move, his skin glistening with sweat as he sinks deeper into you. You watch the intensity in his gaze as he looks down at where you both meet, his face contorted with raw desire.

Your legs spread wider when your body’s are fully flushed. The sensation of being so full and heavy of Aemond is heavenly.

You cry out in bliss as he begins to move inside you. His hips rolling out and snapping into your cunt.

The rhythm of Aemond's thrusts are deliberate and powerful, each one rolling and snapping with increasing force. You feel the tension building within you, a fire that is threatening to consume you both. Your chest bounces as he growls into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

Your legs and hands cling around him, trying to hold on as his pace quickens. Your fingers claw into his back, leaving red marks in their wake. Aemond sucks at the salty flesh on the curve of your neck, biting down hard before meekly replacing his tongue and lips to ease the pain.

"sīr vok," he whispers into the shell of your ear in between thrusts, his voice low and rough. “se mirre syt nyke.” (So perfect, all mines)

You moan in response, unable to form coherent words as pleasure overtakes your senses. The world around you fades away as Aemond continues to assault your inside, each thrust bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Aemond reaches a certain depth inside you–hitting that one spot of nerves. A wave of pleasure washes over you and you cry out his name. Your back arches off the floor as you shake in ecstasy and gasp for air.

But Aemond doesn't slow down. He continues to fuck into you, through your orgasm, his grunts becoming more guttural and primal. He leans down to capture your lips in a fierce kiss, his tongue dancing with yours . Your hands roam over his body, feeling every ripple and muscle as he brings both of you closer to the brink.

You wrap your legs tighter around him, urging him on as he pounds into you with an urgency that matches your own. Aemond buries himself between the curve of your neck, his moans loud and desperate. The familiar coil in your stomach begins to tighten once more as Aemond relentlessly drives into you.

“ivestragī ñuha—ah” You gasp at the sensitivity between your thighs. “laesi jurnegon jemome.” (let me see you). You beckon him to remove himself from your shoulder blade.

Aemond obliges and turns his face towards yours. You stare as his features twist with pleasure. How his body tenses as he reaches his own peak, his hips stuttering against yours as he spills himself inside you. You feel the warmth of his seed filling you to the brim. You let out a sigh of satisfaction. He nearly collapses on top of you, but manages to gather the strength to withdraw from your body. You both watch as your essence coats him and his own drips between your thighs.

He falls down beside you in exhaustion.

You miss the warmth of him inside you, the feeling of him being close to you.

The silence stretches, only your breathing echoing in the vast emptiness of the room, both of you lost in your own thoughts.

After what feels like an eternity, you glance over at Aemond. He lies still, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

Without shifting your gaze from him, you say the words slowly, each syllable deliberate. “I’m going to kill you one day.”

It was a promise.

You expect a reaction—a sudden turn of his head, a flash of anger, perhaps even the feeling of his hand reaching for the dagger beside him, and driving it into your throat. But none of that comes.

Instead, Aemond remains as he is, his face serene, his eyes still locked on the ceiling as if it held all the answers. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink.

“I know.” His words are soft and matter a fact.

You slowly turn your head, your eyes tracing the same path his do and stare at the ceiling above. The silence settles again, heavy and suffocating, but beneath it lies a quiet understanding– one neither of you are yet ready to confront.

#aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #prince aemond #hotd smut #aemond smut #aemond x you #aemond one eye #house of the dragon smut #hotd #hotd aemond #x reader #aemond fic #aemond targaryen smut

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gothicxreylover · 3 months ago

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Hi! Can I do a quick request of the yandere uppermoons trying to comfort their darling after the darling having a nightmare of them dying brutally? Just some normal fluffy fluff with hurt-to-comfort?

But, plot twist, Enmu gave the uppermoon's darling that nightmare, because he wanted them for himself?

And things just end with the uppermoons scaring away Enmu and then taking advantage to comfort their darling and have another close moment with them?

Hello guys I’m officially back im starting to feel better I know it sound unrealistic of how long I was sick for but now I feel much better than before and I’m starting to finish requests

Kokushibo

Your eyes shot open, a strangled gasp caught in your throat as you sat up. Cold sweat clung to your skin as the horrifying images of Kokushibo’s mutilated body flashed through your mind. His six eyes, usually so piercing, had been dull and lifeless, his body crumbling into dust right before you.

Your breath hitched, and you turned—only to find the demon himself sitting beside you. Even in the dim candlelight, his presence was suffocatingly intense.

“…You are trembling.” His deep, rumbling voice sent a shiver through you, but not from fear.

You didn’t answer. Instead, your fingers clutched at the fabric of his kimono, desperate to ground yourself in reality. He was here. He was fine.

His calloused hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his six burning eyes. “Tell me,” he commanded.

“I—I saw you die,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “They cut you down, and you… you turned to dust.”

Kokushibo stared at you, unreadable. Then, with a fluid motion, he pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms securely around you. “Such an outcome is… impossible.” His voice was steady, unwavering. “I will not fall. Not before you. Not ever.”

You buried your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of pine and steel. His heartbeat—slow, measured—was proof enough that he was still here. Still yours.

But later that night, when he sensed the lingering traces of Enmu’s blood demon art, his grip on his katana tightened.

“That wretched fool…” Kokushibo’s voice was cold enough to freeze rivers. “I will carve this offense into his very bones.”

⸻

Douma

You woke up sobbing. Douma’s severed head was the last thing you saw before the nightmare faded into the void. His usual mocking grin had been wiped away, replaced by something hollow—something broken.

Warm hands stroked your back, and a soft, honeyed voice purred in your ear.

“Oh dear, that was a nasty little dream, wasn’t it?”

You hiccupped, looking up into Douma’s golden eyes. For once, they weren’t filled with detached amusement. His head tilted, his lips curling into a small frown. “You poor thing~ Was it about me?”

You nodded weakly, your hands gripping his arms as if he’d disappear if you let go.

Douma let out a soft laugh, though there was something unnatural about it. “How silly! As if someone could ever take me down.” He nuzzled into your hair, his cold breath tickling your skin. “I’m far too pretty to die so gruesomely~”

Despite the usual teasing, his arms tightened around you, pressing you against his chest as if he could melt into your skin.

But when you finally drifted back to sleep, Douma’s ever-present smile vanished. His eyes, sharp and calculating, gleamed in the darkness.

“Enmu, huh?” he mused, running a single clawed finger along your cheek. “Now that’s just rude~”

The next time Douma saw Enmu, his voice was as sweet as ever—but the pressure in the air became unbearable.

“You made my darling cry, little dream demon. Do you know what happens to those who upset my precious one?”

Enmu barely had time to scream before Douma’s fan came down.

⸻

Akaza

You woke with a choked gasp, eyes wide with terror. Your hands grasped at the empty space beside you, searching, panicked. Akaza was gone.

“Hey, hey, I’m right here.”

A strong, familiar arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you against a firm chest. You flinched at the touch before realizing—he was alive. Warmth radiated from his body, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding you.

“…You died,” you whispered, fists clenching against his haori. “They killed you, Akaza. I saw it.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest. “No one is strong enough to kill me.”

You shuddered, the memory of his broken, bloodied body flashing in your mind. “But I—”

Akaza pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands. His cerulean eyes burned with fierce determination. “I swore to protect you, didn’t I?” His forehead pressed against yours, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re the only thing in this world I can’t bear to lose. I will not fall. Not when you need me.”

You nodded, but the fear still clung to you. Sensing this, Akaza adjusted his grip, pulling you fully onto his lap. “If it still bothers you, then let me hold you until morning,” he murmured.

And he did.

But once he caught Enmu’s scent lingering in your subconscious, his fury was uncontainable.

“Preying on their dreams…? You pathetic, spineless coward.” His fists clenched, veins bulging as his teeth ground together.

When Akaza finally confronted Enmu, it wasn’t a fight. It was a massacre.

⸻

Hantengu & His Clones

“WAAAAAHHHH! SO CRUEL! YOU SAW ME DIE?!? I KNEW IT, I KNEW IT, EVERYONE IS OUT TO GET MEEE!!!”

You barely had time to breathe before Hantengu collapsed into your lap, sobbing uncontrollably. His frail body trembled as he clung to you, wailing about his horrible, tragic fate.

Zohakuten scowled from the other side of the room. “You’re upsetting them, you sniveling old fool.”

“I CAN’T HELP IT!”

Sekido’s glare darkened as he turned to you. “Who hurt you?” he demanded. “Tell me.”

You hesitated, still shaken. “…It was a nightmare. I saw all of you die.”

The room went quiet.

Karaku whistled, draping an arm around your shoulders. “Damn, that’s rough. But c’mon, do we look like we’d let that happen?” His lazy grin softened as he kissed your temple. “We’re not going anywhere, cutie.”

Urogi let out a shrill cackle, perching behind you. “Yeah! No way we’d die that easily! We’re waaay too strong~” His talons traced lazy circles on your shoulder. “You’re stuck with us forever, so don’t even worry about it.”

Aizetsu sighed, pulling you into a hug. “That must have been very distressing…” he murmured. “But we’re still here. We’re not leaving you.”

Despite their chaotic personalities, all of them clung to you for the rest of the night.

But when Zohakuten sensed Enmu’s presence, his fury was immediate. “That bastard invaded their dreams?” His voice was venomous.

Enmu didn’t last long. The combined rage of all the clones ensured that.

⸻

Gyutaro & Daki

Gyutaro cradled your trembling form, his clawed fingers running through your hair. “Tch. Stupid dreams messin’ with ya like that,” he muttered. “Ain’t real, y’know that?”

“I know,” you whispered, clinging to him. “But it felt so real.”

Daki huffed, her arms looping around both of you. “Well, obviously my brother isn’t going to die like that,” she scoffed. “We’ll be together forever, dummy!”

Gyutaro gritted his teeth, sensing the faint traces of Enmu’s aura. “That bastard,” he growled.

By the time he found Enmu, the dream demon was begging for mercy.

He didn’t get any.

#gothicxreylover #gender neutral reader #yandere x reader #yandere demon slayer #yandere upper moons #yandere gyutaro #yandere daki #yandere kokushibo #yandere douma #yandere akaza #yandere hantengu clones #yandere kimetsu no yaiba #yandere kny

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gardens-light · 7 months ago

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hello!

I love your work and I wanted to ask if you would be interested in writing a D-16 x techno-Organic reader?

I would like to see his reaction to the fact that part of her body is soft.

Hi! Thanks for the feedback and for this awesome prompt. I've always liked the idea of a techno/Cybertronic- human/organic hybrid reader, and there definity needs to be more fanfics of it.

Hope you enjoy and apologies for keeping you waiting. :)

Of Flesh and Steel

Expecting the usual deal transaction, the Quintesson ship landed upon the vast plains of Cybertron, sending harsh vibrations through the metallic ground. Their leader scanning the area with a studious gaze, as D16 and his Decepticons greeted with polite bows and hidden, false smiles.

Once their guard was down, Megatron withdraw his cannon. The weapon whirling to life, as he held the barrel against the Quintessons neck with a smug smile. His crimson gaze giving a silent demand, as his glare narrowed.

Amidst disruption and confusion, you made your escape. Forcing your already tired, broken and battered body to run as far as you could. Desperate to put distance between you and your creators, only to lose yourself among the strange foliage of this unknown world.

Content: D16/Megatron X GN Cybertronian/Human Hybrid Reader. Events takes place after TFO.

Word Count: 1,300

The dense metallic forest of Cybertron shimmered under the glow of the twin moons, its landscape a strange fusion of natural beauty and mechanical precision. A forest filled with copper-like leaves hummed faintly, the sound of energon flowing through their veins filling the air like a distant song. Amidst the alien tranquility, D16 and Shockwave moved with purpose, their sensors tracking an erratic and unfamiliar signal.

His towering frame gleamed in the moonlight, while scanning the area with piercing optics. Claws flexed instinctively, prepared for whatever this anomaly might be. Beside him, Shockwave’s singular optic glowed a cold, analytical purple, his detached demeanor betraying no hint of surprise nor curiosity.

Cautiously approaching a clearing, the signal became stronger. Much stronger. Finally brushing away the branches and leafs, D16's and Shockwaves optics widened as their gaze fell upon the most peculiar sight.

You.

Despite having distinctly Cybertronian characteristics. D16 could see something more... organic to you. His optics roamed over your frame, but your... human like skin glistened faintly with a metallic sheen under the moonlight.

Your human-like facial features had the most beautiful optics the Decepticon leader had ever seen. Their unusual colour held a strange depth, as if they contained circuitry woven into your very soul.

Oddly articulated armor covered your arms and legs, segmented like plating- similar to his own.

A small gasp escaped your lips, as your startled gaze finally met theirs. Feeling D16's gaze, as he tried to study more of you. His processor attempting to make sense of the impossibility before him.

Shockwave tilted his head, his optic narrowing as he scanned you. “ "A hybrid of Cybertronian and something... organic? Unprecedented. Likely a Quintesson experiment. Curious anomaly. Should we secure it for study?”

You quickly flinched at Shockwave's imposing presence, pressing yourself harder against the tree as if trying to merge with its metal bark. Breath quickened, and a faint, glitchy sound escaped your lips—a broken plea in a language that Shockwave couldn’t decipher.

“Hold,” D16 sharply spoke, raising his arm to block Shockwave’s advance. His cannon clicked softly as it retracted back into his forearm. His crimson optics slightly softened, as he approached you, his massive frame towered, but his movements were calculated, almost measured.

A whimper softly escaped your lips, while you clutched onto a crude tool—a shard of Quintesson metal that you scavenged during your escape.

It was hardly a threat, but your grip upon it was desperate. Daring to aim the shard at him, feeling D16's optics study your movements for a little longer.

He could see the fear in her optics. Your... words was something he couldn't understand, but the trembling of your frame and the way you recoiled told him enough.

“Their fear is irrelevant,” Shockwave replied coldly, his scanner continuing to process data. “The priority should be understanding their origin and purpose. We should capture them for further analysis.”

Giving a subtle nod to the suggestion, D16 lowered himself to one knee, coming more to your eye level. Softening his voice to a low and steady tone.

“We’re not here to harm you.”

His usual tone returned once opening a private channel to his comrade. Analyze their signal patterns. I want a full breakdown of their language and physiology. But handle them delicately, I don't want you to get too... 'carried away' with your research.

Shockwave inclined his head, his optic flickering. Understood. Prepare for transport?

Not yet. Gain their trust first. It’ll be easier to extract information if they're more cooperative.

"Here..." Your studious gaze narrowed upon D16's outstretched servo. The back of his digits gently encouraging you to lower the Quintession shard, while edging his palm closer. "Take my servo. We'll keep you safe."

Hesitation eased your uneven breath as your optics studied his open servo. Your expression softening slightly while you slowly dropped the shard.

His hand...? His body...? It's... similar to mine...

Optics trailing up his arm, falling upon his faceplate. Placing your small, organic servo into D16's palm, silently allowing him to help you onto your pedes.

The sensation was startling for both of you. To him, your touch was alien—warm and pliant, a stark contrast to the cold steel he was accustomed to. But to you... his hand was immense and unyielding but not entirely hostile. Unfamiliar yet comforting at the same time.

Your touch still trembled within D16's servo, as your optics met his once more. The Decepticon leader felt the faint warmth of your organic flesh through the sensors in his plating. He tilted his head, observing you more closely.

Another sound escaped you, more urgent this time, your voice broke as you spoke to the pair in a pleading, desperate tone. Though your words were incomprehensible. D16's optics softened slightly, and for the first time, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirred within him— pity?

"Calm yourself," he said in the gentlest tone his imposing frame could muster.

You didn't understand his words, but his modulation slightly eased your trembling frame. Bring your spark closer to it's regular pulse. Your grip upon his digits slightly tightened, yet he could still feel your servo trembling.

Shockwave stepped closer, his ever-analytical gaze fixed upon you. Their integration of organic and Cybertronian elements is intriguing. There are no known processes that would yield such a seamless fusion. A study upon them may represent... a new frontier.

D16's crimson gaze flickered up towards his comrade, replying over his private comlink. We’ll take them back to base, but remember—this isn’t just a subject. Proceed with care.

Clutching onto his servo, looking up at him with a mixture of fear and fragile hope as you quietly followed D16's lead through the forest. He occasionally gave you a slight side glance, hiding the storm of suspicion and calculation within him.

Your trembling digits brushed against his metal palm, causing him to freeze for a fraction of a second. You were... impossibly soft—alien and fragile in a way he had never encountered. Cybertronians, even the most delicate among them, were made of metals, alloys, and composites. The sensation of warmth and yielding flesh against his cold plating was... utterly foreign.

While running his thumb over your smaller servo, his optics flickered briefly as he tried to process the sensation. The texture of your servo was smooth yet uneven, faint imperfections running beneath the surface—a network of tiny veins, a pulse of warmth radiating outward.

Something... stirred within his chest. An urge wanted to pull back, to break contact, as if touching you might do damage—or worse, compromise him. But he forced himself to remain still, his vast reserves of discipline locking his servo in place.

They feel.. soft. So soft. Soft, gentle and yet... resilient?

The fact that you had somehow survived the harshness of the Quintessons and the wilderness of Cybertron seemed at odds with the fragility of your form.

Your grip tightened slightly around his digits, pressing your body warmth deeper against his palm. D16 caught himself feeling an odd pang of... Pity? No, that wasn’t it. Understanding? Closer.

The softness of your skin, your frame it was... too exposed, too... unprotected. It stirred something in him that he didn’t like—a flicker of vulnerability, perhaps even responsibility.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder at Shockwave, whose single optic remained fixated upon you with clinical detachment, as he steadily followed behind. For a fleeting moment, the Decepticon leader envied that cold, mechanical focus. For D16 felt his own reaction felt far too... personal.

Clenching his jaw, he pushed the sensation aside and refocused on the situation at hand. “Their physiology is... unique.” He muttered, almost to himself, his voice was steady, but there was a faint tension in it.

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, you looked up at him with a soft gaze. Your trembling seemed to lessen slightly, as though his presence—even as alien it was offered you some sort of... reassurance.

To you, he was a savior. To him, you were merely an enigma—one he would unravel.

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heavenlybodies333 · 4 months ago

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Purity Alliance - D.M.

!warning!minorsdni, drug/alcohol use, reckless driving

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x you

The Malfoy Manor was a cathedral of wealth, towering and pristine, its walls whispering of old magic and older power. The candlelight flickers against the polished mahogany table, glinting off the delicate crystal glasses filled with deep red wine. Your family had been invited for an evening of diplomatic pleasantries. You knew what this dinner was supposed to be—a well-mannered meeting between two of the most powerful pureblood families, the beginning of an alliance that had been in the works for generations. Your parents had made it very clear: you were to be poised, polite, and every bit the perfect daughter they had raised. The Malfoys expected a young lady of refinement.

Your black dress clung too tightly to your body, stiff and restrictive, chosen not for you but for the appearance your parents wanted to present tonight. You sat with your hands in your lap, fingers pressing into the silky fabric, barely listening as the conversation droned on around you.

They had been in discussions for weeks—alliances, politics, power. You understood none of it, nor did you care to. All you knew was that you had been summoned to sit prettily, an accessory to your father’s words, a symbol of pureblood unity. The room smells of expensive cigars, aged whiskey, and narcissism. Your father speaks in measured tones discussing something in deep thought with Lucius. Draco sits across from you, posture as perfect as ever, dressed in a tailored black suit that fits him like sin. Platinum hair slicked back, the candlelight catches on the sharp angles of his face. He looks cold, detached—exactly as you expected.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

It wasn’t until Lucius cleared his throat that your head snapped up. “I believe we have matters to discuss privately,” he said, voice smooth and authoritative. “Draco, why don’t you take our guest and ensure she has a pleasant evening?”

His mother smiled, cool and practiced. “Make sure she enjoys herself, darling.” There was a weight in those words, an expectation. You were supposed to be entertained, and he was supposed to behave.

Draco rose smoothly, holding out a arm in an almost mocking display of chivalry. “Shall we?”

Holding back an eye roll you ignore his hand as your mother smiles at you, a silent warning in her angry eyes. Behave.

Draco’s hand hovered near your back as he led you from the dining room. The second the doors shut behind you, sealing your parents in with their secrets, you sighed, rolling your shoulders.

“So,” you muttered. “How are you supposed to entertain me?”

Draco turned his head, the corners of his lips curling into something almost amused. “I suppose that depends on what you consider entertaining.”

You scoffed. “What, are we going to sit in the parlor and drink tea while you lecture me on pureblood etiquette?”

His eyes darkened slightly. “Not quite.” With a tilt of his head, he led you toward his car. You follow him out of the manor, past the pristine marble steps and grandiose fountain, the night air crisp against your skin. The Malfoy estate is as cold and imposing as its inhabitants, but the sleek black car parked in the driveway is anything but. Right as Draco clicks the key fob you did something that caught him entirely off guard.

Reaching behind, you pulled at the zipper of your dress, and let the heavy black fabric fall, revealing the silk slip dress underneath—thin straps, clinging to your body, a direct rebellion against everything you had been forced to wear tonight.

Draco paused mid-step. His eyes dragged over you, slow, appreciative, consuming.

“Problem?” you asked, innocently smiling.

He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head as he lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Not at all.” He stepped around the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, but not before muttering, just loud enough for you to hear, “Fuckin’ hell.” Satisfaction curled in your stomach as you walked over, opening the passenger door. You hesitated for only a second before doing the same. The leather is cool against your thighs, the air thick with the lingering scent of cigarettes and expensive cologne—something distinctly Draco.

He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, head tilted slightly as he glanced at you. “You always this much of a tease, or is tonight special?”

You smirked, leaning back, stretching your legs just enough for the hem of your dress to rise. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be a problem, aren’t you?”

You giggle, tucking your hair behind your ear, “Eyes on the road Malfoy.”

He doesn’t wait. The engine roars to life, as he shifts the car gear. You barely have time to reach for your seatbelt before he’s peeling out of the driveway. The car shot forward, tires screeching against pavement, the wind whipping through your hair as he pushed the speed past reckless. Your pulse quickened, but not from fear.

Fuck.

“You’re not scared, are you?” Draco taunted, flicking ash from his cigarette.

You scoffed, reaching for the glass bottle of firewhiskey between your legs, taking a long pull before leaning back against the seat. “Scared of what? You driving like a fucking maniac?”

He laughed, the sound dark and rich. “I’d say ‘like a maniac’ is a bit harsh. More like… liberated.”

The Draco Malfoy you had been introduced to earlier in the evening—the one who had kissed your hand with perfect etiquette and spoke in carefully measured words—was nowhere to be found. And the you who had smiled charmingly at his parents, nodding when spoken to, was long gone too.

This was not what your parents had in mind.

This was not what his parents had in mind.

But Merlin, it felt incredible.

Draco takes a sharp turn, one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. He looks… different. He looks reckless. Alive.

Honestly he looks really fucking hot.

You throw your head back, laughing, the sound echoing out the window. You feel good, euphoric, like the world is spinning too fast but you don’t care. Draco watching you from the corner of his eye, something dark and hungry in his gaze.

His hand slides from the gearshift to your thigh. Your breath catches as his fingers press against the bare skin, cold against the heat of your body. You don’t push him away. You should. But you don’t.

Instead, you shift, turning your body toward him, your dress slipping further up your legs you might as well be wearing next to nothing. His hand tightens.

Your breath is uneven, chest rising and falling as the night air whips through the open window.

You should be terrified—Draco is driving too fast, one hand gripping the wheel, the other on your thigh, his knuckles pale from the force of it. But fear doesn’t come.

Excitement does.

It courses through your veins, a high more potent than the alcohol buzzing in your system. You don’t recognize yourself, this reckless girl in the passenger seat of a sleek, dark car, letting Draco Malfoy touch her, letting him look at her like that.

You shift, the silk of your slip dress clinging to your skin moving even higher up your body. His gaze flickers downward, just for a moment, but long enough for the car to swerve slightly. He corrects it effortlessly, smirking.

“Fuck, princess. You trying to get us killed?”

Your lips curl, fingers grazing the inside of his wrist where it rests against your thigh. He tenses.

“Maybe I just wanted to see if you could keep up.”

A laugh, deep and rich. “Oh, I can keep up.”

The car speeds up, the world blurring around you as he pushes it past the legal limit. You don’t care. The wind whips through your hair as Draco accelerates, the hum of the engine vibrating beneath your seat. The silk slip clings to you, the fabric cool against overheated skin.

Every nerve in your body is lit up, electric. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe it’s just him.

Draco shifts gears, his free hand dangerously close to your thigh. The other grips the wheel with practiced ease, his rings catching in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. The roads blur into dark, winding streaks, and you let your head fall back against the seat, exhaling slowly.

“This what you had in mind when our parents sent us off to have a nice time?” His voice is amused, teasing.

You smirk. “Not exactly. But I don’t hear you complaining.”

His fingers gripping your thigh enough to send a shiver down your spine. He’s watching you from the corner of his eye, pupils blown wide from whatever he took before dinner. You’re sure yours look the same.

You reach for the cigarette tucked behind his ear, placing it between your lips before leaning over, waiting. He watches you for a moment, then smirks, flicking his lighter to life. The flame dances, reflecting in his silver blue eyes as he brings it close.

You inhale, the smoke filling your lungs, your fingers grazing his wrist again.

“Your parents would kill you if they saw you like this,” he laughs.

You blow the smoke toward the open window, smiling. “Yours would have a heart attack.”

Draco’s fingers flex against your thigh, His lips part slightly, his gaze heavy-lidded as he watches you exhale. “I think they’d be more concerned with what you’ve got under that dress.”

His hands slide under your slip dress, fingers searing against your thighs as he pushes the fabric up, fingers tracing higher, higher—

He inhaled sharply, as a smirk pressed against your lips. “No fucking panties, princess?”

You bite your bottom lip locking eyes with him. Neither of you realizes he’s swerved onto oncoming traffic—a loud horn interrupts you, headlights burning into the car’s interior like flash beams.

Your breath catches in your throat, "Fuck," he mutters, running a hand through his platinum hair. He exhales sharply, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's suppressing a grin. "You're out of your fucking mind," dragging his thumb up the inside of your thigh. "You’re the one driving," you counter.

This was not what his parents had in mind when they told him to show you a good time. It sure as hell wasn’t what yours had in mind either. You were supposed to be refined, poised—a perfect pureblood princess molded for an alliance. Instead, you're high off your fucking mind, fingers trailing up Draco’s arm, "You like this," you murmur, voice thick with amusement, with challenge.

His grip tightens. "Like what?"

"Not being perfect for once." You drag your nails lightly over his forearm again, watching the way his muscles jump beneath your touch. "Not being what they expect you to be."

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, his foot presses harder against the gas, it should terrify you, the speed, the recklessness. But it doesn’t. It feels like flying.

"You're bloody insane," Draco mutters, but there’s something like admiration in his tone, something hot and dark that makes your stomach tighten.

"You should slow down," you tease, eyes flickering over to him. "Or what will mummy and daddy think?"

Draco scoffs, tipping his head back in a short laugh before flashing you a look that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Fuck them."

You grin. "Fuck them."

Without thinking, without hesitating, you push yourself up, half out the window, hands braced against the car door as you tip your head back and laugh.

Draco’s hand wrapped around your thigh, firm, possessive, a silent tether keeping you from losing yourself completely. His fingers dig into your skin, branding you with his touch, but it only makes you lean further out the window. "You’re going to kill yourself," he shouts but he doesn’t pull you back. He just holds you tighter, knuckles white, jaw clenched.

"Wouldn’t be the worst way to go," you throw back, reckless, teasing.

Draco’s grip tightens, his palm burning against your bare skin. "Not fucking happening, princess."

He yanks you back inside, your back slamming against the embossed seats. "You’ve got a death wish," he rasps. Rolling your eyes you grab onto his arm as his lands back onto your thigh. He doesn’t let go and neither do you.

His voice was low, almost drowned out by the hum of the engine, but you hear it. Feel it. “You like this, don’t you?” throwing your observation from earlier back into your face.

The way he says it—half accusation, half something else—makes your pulse kick up again.

“Yeah. I do.”

Draco exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head, hands flexing against the leather wheel.

“Fucking hell.”

Then he floors it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: I ordered manacled as a bday gift to myself it’s coming right in time before, I’m so excited to read it finally I can’t wait. ALSO huge huge so to my darling @shyamanuensis for helping me edit 💋

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ

MASTERLIST

#draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #slytherin boys x you #slytherin boys x reader #draco malfoy x slytherin!reader #draco malfoy drabble #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy x oc #draco malfoy #slytherin boys #slytherin #draco malfoy x female reader #malfoy manor

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literatureloverx · 10 months ago

Note

Thoughts on how fyodor would react if someone really hurt/upset his darling either physically or emotionally?

Thank you for the request, my dear!♥️ I hope I can live up to your expectations.♥️

Also, I’m so sorry because it took me so long to get to your request!♥️

Mdni, Fyodor is unhinged, blood, cannibalism, yandere behaviour etc.

Enjoy.♥️

If it’s a trivial disagreement, it would be more than enough for your beloved husband to simply erase those people from your lives.

“No need to cry, my love. I handled everything for you.”

After all, you have no need for such sinners.

But… if the matter is of a more serious nature… oh, the consequences would be far more severe.

Haha. They’re dead.

No, obviously, they’re done for. But Fyodor is not the type of man who would go easy on the insignificant beings who dared to upset his darling wife.

The consequences would be nothing short of catastrophic.

Fyodor’s reaction to such an affront would be both swift and devastating, marked by a ruthlessness that reflects his profound sense of control and personal investment in his beloved.

To harm you is to strike at the very core of his existence, a transgression that demands a retribution far exceeding the original offense.

Fyodor’s response would be characterized by a cold, clinical precision.

His mind, ever sharp and strategic, would immediately begin formulating a plan to ensure that those responsible experience a fate far more severe than their initial act of aggression.

Every detail of the situation would be meticulously analyzed, and the resulting punishment would be both creative and devastating.

His aim would not only be to neutralize the threat but to send a stark, unambiguous warning to anyone who might contemplate crossing him in the future.

Emotionally, Fyodor’s demeanor would remain as icy as it is unyielding.

He would not be driven by the conventional rage associated with such offenses. Instead, his reaction would be a measured and precise execution of justice.

That is, because you’re so dear to him.

His detachment allows him to approach the situation without the cloud of uncontrolled anger, making his vengeance even more chilling in its methodical nature.

The concept of mercy would be utterly foreign to Fyodor in this context.

The harm inflicted upon his darling, you, is an egregious violation of his deepest vulnerability—to love you.

Therefore, the retribution he administers would be designed to dismantle completely any semblance of power or dignity from those responsible.

They would soon bathe in their own blood, eating their own flesh.

Their bodies will rot in the hell that he has meticulously crafted for them.

“… I handled everything for you.”

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd fyodor #bungou stray dogs fyodor #yandere bsd #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader #fyodor x you #yan fyodor #yandere fyodor

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pancaketax · 2 months ago

Text

What Remains | Chapter 16 Dragged Back (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

TW : Violence/Physical Assault. Gun Violence. Summary : Exhausted beyond your limits, you collapse in the middle of a meeting at Stark Tower. Bruce tends to you with calm precision, while Stark masks his worry behind sharp remarks. You're forced to rest, though it feels like failure. Later, you head to the police to report your abuser, hoping for protection — but the system greets you with cold detachment. No help. No real concern. Just a form and vague promises.

word count: 14.6k

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

The first sound you perceive isn’t a voice, nor a word — it’s a low, almost organic hum. It pulses against your skull like an underwater current, steady, distant. Everything seems to come through a glass wall, as if the world exists at a distance you’re not yet able to reach. Then, the sounds evolve. At first vague, formless, like echoes distorted by water. Voices.

A conversation, maybe. Fragments of syllables gently bumping against your awareness, not yet forming meaning. Your body, for its part, still refuses to respond. It’s heavy, exhausted, anchored into the mattress as if every bone had been replaced with molten lead. A dull pain stretches across your back, between the shoulder blades, and the arm in the sling is numb, nearly absent. Even breathing requires too much precision, too much consciousness. Then a voice pierces the veil — deep, steady, familiar.

— “Can you hear me?”

You don’t open your eyes yet, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere. Bruce. His calm, his grounded presence, that way he always keeps control. He’s here. Another voice follows — closer, sharper, and far less patient.

— “Great. Of course this had to happen now.”

Tony.

There’s tension in his voice. Not panic, not really. More that typical mix of restrained anger and poorly hidden concern. His very own way of showing he cares without having to say it. It twists something in your chest, but you can’t reach him yet. Not fully. You want to respond. You try. But your lips remain sealed, as if your brain and mouth haven’t reconnected. The world continues on without you for a few more seconds. A cold shiver slowly climbs your spine. It runs through you like a dull wave, waking your nerves one by one. Your mind still floats somewhere between unconsciousness and the surface, halfway through a too-dense dream. But already, the world starts to assert itself, in small strokes.

The floor is cold beneath your palms. A raw, almost aggressive chill, stark against your damp skin. You also feel pressure against your arm — faint but present — a hand, maybe, or some kind of support. Someone caught you. Or softened your fall. Or stopped you from collapsing entirely. The air around you smells metallic, sharper than before, with a trace of ozone, like after an electric discharge. Nothing familiar. You’re not at home. The realization hits you with unpleasant clarity. The Tower. You’re still in Stark Tower.

You try to open your eyes, but your eyelids refuse to budge. As if sewn shut by fatigue, or sealed by fear. Instead, you breathe in — or try to. Your breath is short, choppy, irregular. It struggles to fill your chest, stuck somewhere between anxiety and instinct. A hand settles gently on your wrist. Not abrupt. Just there, measuring. Evaluating. You feel the warm touch of fingers, the light pressure searching for your pulse.

— “Heart rate’s a little high, but it’s stabilizing.”

Banner. His voice reaches you with newfound clarity. Still calm, still that almost detached analytical tone. But not cold. Never cold. Just… measured.

— “Yeah, great, thanks Doctor. And what do we do now?”

Stark. Again. His voice cuts like a short blade — sharp but restrained. No usual theatrics. No sarcasm. No irony. Just a dry tone. Practical. Maybe worried. Maybe… not ready to admit it yet. You remain motionless, caught between two worlds. You know you’ll have to choose. Rise. Respond. Return to your body. But for now, you listen. Silence settles. Dense. Heavy. You can’t see it, but you feel it — that suspended waiting, that frozen moment where everyone holds their breath — as if your stillness sets the tempo of the room. Then a sound of movement, subtle, fabric shifting, a shoe gliding softly across the floor. A presence nears. You don’t know which one, but you feel it looming near your face.

A light tap brushes your cheek. Gentle. Measured. Not a slap — just enough to stir the fog. A physical summons to come back.

— “Come on, kid, back to Earth. I’ve got better things to do.”

That voice is unmistakable. Even without the arrogance, it holds that sharp clarity, that stubborn refusal to let things stay blurry. He doesn’t allow panic. He reshapes it into impatience. You let out a faint groan, barely audible. Your throat is dry, scratchy, as if you’d swallowed dust. Just making a sound pulls a grimace from you. You don’t speak yet. Not sure you can. But the effect is immediate. Something in the air shifts. A slight movement. A breath released somewhere near you. A tension easing by a fraction. Relief. Unspoken. Unshown. But present. Almost tangible.

You feel eyes on you. Not invasive. Just… watchful. Maybe worried. Probably curious. You’re still here. And so are they. You gather what willpower you have left and force your eyelids open. Slowly. The light hits you like a slap — raw, unfiltered, too harsh for your still-numb mind. Your retinas protest, burn, and your pupils contract in a desperate attempt to adapt. The first images are blurry. Shapes, indistinct, sway as if seen through murky water. Then, slowly, the edges begin to sharpen.

You’re lying on the floor, slightly turned to one side. The cold metal seeps through your shirt, climbing up your spine like a wave of ice. Your left arm rests against something soft — a jacket, maybe. Someone broke your fall. Bruce Banner is crouched beside you. His usually serene face is marked by focused worry. Furrowed brows, alert gaze. He doesn’t move abruptly. He’s watching you. Waiting. Just behind him, Tony Stark. Arms crossed, posture rigid in his flawless suit, he glares at you like he’s expecting an explanation for a technical failure. His eyes, dark, are locked on you — but there’s no contempt in them. More like… irritated concern, barely veiled beneath a mask of irony.

— “Did you really have to give us a dramatic collapse right in the middle of a meeting?” he says, brow raised, that familiar bittersweet irony floating in the air like smoke.

You close your eyes briefly, weary. That tone. That pathological need to hide concern behind a well-placed jab. You don’t even have the energy to care. Your body is still too heavy to react, your breathing still too shallow to string together more than two words without exhaustion. But your mind… your mind is starting to return. To piece things together.

You inhale slowly, struggling to order your thoughts, then croak out in a raspy whisper, barely audible:

— “I’m… not dramatic.”

A whisper, hardly more than breath. But enough to crack the silence around you. Banner studies you for a moment longer, his eyes following your breathing, then lets out a light, almost resigned sigh. He turns to Stark, weighing his words before speaking.

— “He’s just pushed his body too far. Sleep deprivation, chronic stress, acute exhaustion… Nothing surprising. But he needs rest. Now.”

His tone is calm, but firm. Final.

— “Well then let him rest,” Stark replies without missing a beat. “Get him a room, shoot him up with whatever it takes to keep him from crashing in the halls, and let’s move on.”

His cynicism rings like a poor defense. Almost automatic. You’re not sure if he talks like that because he doesn’t care, or because he doesn’t know how to care any other way. Maybe both. Banner presses his lips together briefly — a silent tic that says plenty. He doesn’t comment, but the irritation shows in the slight clench of his jaw. Then he turns back to you, voice returning to its usual softness.

— “Can you sit up?”

You take a deep breath, as if probing your body’s state. Every movement seems to demand permission your muscles aren’t ready to give. But the dizziness isn’t as violent, and the floor’s chill is beginning to sink into your skin. You move one arm. Then the other. Your elbows find your knees, and you push yourself up — slowly, onto one elbow, then sitting up. The world tilts for a moment, but you steady yourself, eyes down, breath shallow, trying to find your balance. Your hands tremble slightly. You choose not to focus on it. Pepper is here now. You didn’t hear her arrive, but her presence instantly brings a new tension to the room. She fixes you with that expression she’s perfected — a mix of exasperation, sincere concern, and that fatigue unique to people who’ve given too much without being heard. Her crossed arms speak for her, well before her words.

— “Why am I not even surprised this is happening?”

She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t even raise her voice. And yet, you feel almost guiltier than when Stark rants.

— “Because you know him well enough to know he’d crash eventually by ignoring everyone,” Banner replies, using that soft irony he adopts when he’s at his limit but still polite.

You sigh, forehead in your hands, slowly massaging your temples with your fingertips. Your head still hums, like a hive has taken residence inside it, but at least the floor no longer sways beneath you. The peak of discomfort has passed, leaving only a deep, tenacious exhaustion.

— “I’m fine,” you murmur.

And instantly, you feel three incredulous stares converge on you. Three mirrored reactions.

— “Yeah, sure. That’s exactly what guys who just collapsed like lifeless puppets say,” Stark snaps — tone dry, but oddly devoid of mockery. Almost concerned, if you dig a little.

Banner crouches again, eyes searching yours.

— “You need rest. And not a rushed night tossing in a stiff bed, gritting your teeth pretending you’re fine. Real rest. Otherwise, your body will decide for you.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have the strength. Pepper nods decisively, already pulling her phone from her pocket. Her gaze doesn’t leave you.

— “I’ll take care of it. He’s not setting foot in an office today.”

You lift your head, ready to protest, and force your body to follow despite the weariness pinning it down.

— “I still have work to do,” you say, trying to stand, arms trembling under your own weight.

But before you can fully sit up, a firm hand lands on your shoulder. Not rough. Just… unwavering.

— “Yeah, and I’ve got an empire to run. We all make sacrifices.”

You lift your eyes to Stark, who raises a brow, unfazed. Your glare slides over him, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even seem annoyed by it. And then, he lowers his voice slightly.

— “Get some rest, kid.”

No sarcasm. No jab. Just a simple sentence, almost gentle, ringing with an unusual sincerity in his voice. And for once, you can tell — he actually means it.

You don’t quite know how you got here. The trip is blurry, erased by a fog your mind still refuses to lift. Everything seems to have played out without you, as if your body had been moved on autopilot while your consciousness drifted elsewhere.

Now, all that remains is the mattress beneath your back — warm, slightly dented where your weight sinks in. The quiet hum of the ventilation system fills the air, steady, almost soothing, but it doesn’t erase the heavier sensation pressing on your chest like a concrete block. You’re in your room. The one in Stark Tower.

The light, soft and diffused, paints the walls in an amber halo, unreal. For a second, you wonder if you’re still dreaming. The room feels suspended outside of the world, as if time itself decided to give you a break, for once. The dizziness is gone. But your body feels numb, drained, like it used up every ounce of energy just standing upright too long. You inhale slowly. A sigh escapes before you even choose to let it. Your throat is dry, scratchy. Even breathing feels like work. You stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open, but your mind is somewhere else.

It pisses you off.

Not explosively, not with boiling anger — no, it’s more insidious. A dull disappointment, wedged into your chest like a splinter you can’t pull out. You should have been in the meeting right now, seated around that big table, defending your project, proving — again — that you deserve to be here. Showing that you’re not just another kid Stark scooped up on a whim. But no. Instead, you’re here. Lying down. Pinned to bed like dead weight, unable to do anything but stare at the damn ceiling, feeling useless.

You turn your head slightly. The movement pulls a groan from you due to the tension in your neck, but you push through. And then you see it: a bottle of water, placed within arm’s reach on the nightstand. An ordinary object. Transparent, simple. And yet, it hits you like a dissonant detail. Because you didn’t put it there. A frown forms between your eyebrows. Your gaze drifts toward the desk. And you notice something else. A touchscreen lies on the edge, still lit, as if it’s waiting for you. You sit up slightly — just enough to see better — and discover the interface open on the morning’s meeting notes. Everything’s there. Precise, clear. Annotated line by line in that cold, structured handwriting you could recognize anywhere.

You don’t need to think long to guess who it’s from.

An irritated sigh slips from you, sharp, more anxious than anything. Your hand trembles slightly as you reach for the screen. Fatigue still stiffens your movements, but you refuse to give in. The device slides into your palm with a soft click, and you scroll with blurred eyes, trying to piece things together. The notes scroll by. Clear, concise. Line after line, key points appear. Technical adjustments, comments on ongoing projects, decisions you should’ve heard with your own ears. Phrases you should’ve defended, corrected, approved. But you weren’t there.

Your absence echoes in your head like a reprimand. Not a casual absence — a collapse, mid-meeting. In front of everyone. And of course, your mind gives you the image instantly: Stark, sitting in his chair, one hand on his chin, the other tapping against the table. His cold gaze likely scanned the room, then he rolled his eyes. You can almost hear it — that slightly dragging voice, mockingly weary: "Can someone pick up the intern before he bleeds all over the cables? Thanks." Your stomach tightens.

He must see you as a burden. More than ever now. Before, at least you could hide behind frantic productivity. Now? Now, you’ve proven even your own body can’t keep up. That you’re not strong enough, not sturdy enough. That even staying conscious through a damn meeting is too much. A muted anger builds in you. It grabs your throat — acidic, seething. At your own body, too weak, too slow. At this sticky exhaustion clinging to you like a goddamn shadow you can’t shake. You want to scream, hit something, anything — but even that, your body won’t let you do anymore. Then, a noise. Three knocks. Sharp. Neither hesitant nor polite. Just firm enough to signal that the person on the other side doesn’t for a second expect you to say no. You don’t even have time to answer. The handle turns. The door opens.

Stark.

He walks in like he owns the place. Because in a way, he does. A coffee cup in one hand, the other stuffed into his pants pocket. His eyes sweep the room — the water bottle, the still-active screen in your hands. Then his gaze meets yours. No visible concern. No “are you okay?” No preamble. Just that perfectly neutral expression, controlled, like he’s analyzing a slightly defective technical panel.

— "You look great."

The tone is almost light. But not quite. A disguised jab, barely wrapped in irony. Classic. He doesn’t wait. He crosses the room, sets his coffee on the desk with clinical precision, and drops into the armchair like he’s walking into a board meeting — not your bedroom. No further words. No permission asked. As always. You stare at him for a second, saying nothing. Just watching, trying to guess what he came here for. But his face stays unreadable, locked down. Finally, you drop your gaze to the screen still in your hands.

— "I see I still got the summary."

— "Guess you’re one of the lucky ones."

His tone is light. Too light. Like a velvet glove over steel. Beneath the sarcasm, you sense the evaluation. The test. He’s not just checking if you can sit upright — he’s watching how you take it. How you react. You slowly set the screen on the table, cross your arms, wear a tired frown.

— "I suppose you’re here to tell me how pathetic it was to collapse in front of everyone."

One eyebrow lifts. He grabs his coffee with almost insolent calm before replying:

— "Oh, believe me, it was a deeply moving moment. I almost shed a tear."

You roll your eyes, drained. But you know he’s not done.

— "But no, not really."

He takes a sip, savoring it like he’s got all the time in the world. Then he sets the cup down slowly, fingers drumming softly on the armrest.

— "I just wanted to see if you were going to give us another dramatic performance or if you could finally sit still for more than ten minutes."

You clench your jaw. You sense the trap, the subtle provocation. But you refuse to bite. Not this time. Stark doesn’t waste time. He didn’t come here for small talk. And you know damn well — if he came all the way to your room, he has something in mind. He watches you like he did in the meeting room. That same piercing, analytical, unforgiving stare. He’s not trying to be comforting — he never is. Just trying to see if you’re still standing or about to crumble again under the pressure.

— "You’ve gone past your limits before, but this time… you full-on crashed mid-flight. And guess what? That’s not a win."

You barely nod, then let out, more sharply than you intended:

— "I know."

He doesn’t react to your tone. Not this time. Maybe he expected worse.

— "Do you? Because so far, your only reaction is getting defensive. Like this is all somehow my fault."

You take a deep breath. The kind you take to keep from breaking — or exploding. You look away, toward the window, where daylight still wrestles with the haze.

— "I just wanted to do my job."

— "Yeah. And you ended up flat on the floor. Great productivity."

The silence that follows isn’t harsh. It settles in gently, like extra weight on your chest. Not crushing, but enough to feel. Neither hostile nor soothing. Just… real. Stark crosses his arms, sizing you up without flinching. His eyes — dark but sharp — study you like a machine that was supposed to work fine, but showed an unexpected fault. Then, his voice drops, steadier, deeper.

— "Let me be clear: I don’t need an employee who collapses mid-meeting."

You brace for the sarcasm. The sharp jab. But it doesn’t come.

— "But I need even less of an idiot who thinks he can work like a machine when he’s one step away from dropping dead."

You grit your teeth. It’s harsh, blunt. But there’s no venom this time. Just a cold truth. The kind you can’t throw back in someone’s face.

— "Keep going like this, and it won’t just be a faint. And I’m not in the mood to deal with an employee who self-destructs on my watch."

He stands, grabs his coffee off the table. Movements calm, almost mechanical — like closing out an unpleasant file. He heads to the door, and you already know the conversation’s ending. But just before leaving, he pauses. Turns his head slightly, catching your eye.

— "You’ve got 24 hours. Use them. Sleep. Breathe. Do whatever you want. But if you show up tomorrow still looking like the walking dead, I’m kicking you out of my office before you even step in."

The handle turns under his fingers. He’s ready to vanish, like he always does. But something twists in your gut. You could stay silent. Let this scene become another bitter, hazy memory. But no. Your voice leaves your mouth before you really decide to speak.

— "Thanks."

Just one word. Barely a breath. But it echoes loud, even in your own head. Stark stops dead. His back tenses, barely noticeable. The stiffness in his neck betrays surprise he won’t show. He doesn’t turn immediately. You feel time pause for half a second, just long enough to sense that something’s happening behind his stillness. He’s thinking. Weighing the weight of what you just said, deciding whether to ignore it or respond. Then he turns slightly, just enough to glance back at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

— "For what exactly?"

You take a second before replying. You focus on a blurry spot between him and the wall, unable to meet that gaze too long.

— "I don’t know. For coming. For giving me the notes. For not telling everyone I’m a fucking burden."

Silence. Dense. Uncomfortable. You expect a mocking laugh. A sharp retort. That classic way he has of defusing emotion with sarcasm. But it doesn’t come. He watches you a moment longer. And for once, he doesn’t try to dominate the exchange. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t judge. He just sighs. A short, tired breath. Shakes his head slightly, almost with a resignation that’s not aggressive. Then, in a flatter tone than usual, he says:

— "Yeah. Don’t get used to it, kid."

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t joke. But he doesn’t need to. And this time, without hesitation, he opens the door and leaves the room without looking back, leaving you alone with a strange sensation in your chest — a mix of discomfort, relief, and something else, murkier. Maybe, just maybe, the first real sign that he sees you. The door closes with a dull, muffled sound, absorbed by the thick walls and returning silence. You stay there, motionless, eyes fixed on the exact spot where he stood moments ago. The empty chair, the table where his coffee still sits lukewarm, the long shadows of day’s end slowly sliding across the walls.

A sigh slips from you before you even notice. And somewhere inside, a tension fades. An invisible tightness — maybe old — that you hadn’t even noticed until now. As if, for a moment, something had shifted. Just a millimeter. But enough to let you breathe a little easier. Maybe he does see you as a burden. Maybe he doesn’t know how to handle what you’re going through. But he came. He talked to you. He saw you. And maybe… just maybe… it’s not as hopeless as you thought.

Stark walks the corridors with a measured pace, his coffee still warm in hand. At this hour, the Tower is calm—almost too calm. The familiar sounds—quiet ventilation, fabric rustling, the soft click of automatic doors—fade into the background. His mind, however, is elsewhere.

Usually, he’d categorize this kind of conversation as a minor incident. An insignificant detour in an overly long, overly full day. A scene with no consequence, to be filed away with the hundreds of other interactions he has every week.

But this time… there’s a grain of sand. Something’s bothering him. A low, persistent tension he can’t shake. And it’s not you. It’s him. Why did he even bother to come see you? Why does it bug him that you collapsed in the middle of a meeting? He could’ve let Banner handle it, as usual. He could’ve ignored your state, waited for your return, reviewed your work with a clear head. That’s what he does with others. Delegate. Stay distant. Be Tony Stark. But this time, he moved. Climbed the stairs, opened the door, spoke actual words. And even if most of them were coated in a thick layer of sarcasm… they were real. And he doesn’t like that.

He observed you. More than he would admit. He saw the dark circles, the tremble in your fingers, the way you held yourself too straight, as if tension alone kept you standing. He noted every warning sign, every supposedly insignificant detail that should’ve led him to simply fire you for built-in burnout. And yet, he didn’t.

Yes, he gave you an ultimatum—brutal, direct, as always—but not because he needed to. Not because you were essential. Because, somehow, your recovery mattered. As if your balance somehow belonged to him. As if your collapse had, in his eyes, become a problem to solve. And that… that irritates him deeply. He pushes open his office door with a brisk motion, walks in without slowing, and drops into his leather chair as if he just crossed a minefield. He runs a hand through his hair, leans back, closes his eyes for a moment.

Is he overdoing it? That’s not like him. He’s not the type to dwell, even less on emotional nonsense. Normally, he lets the weak ones fall. Natural selection, ruthless efficiency. You keep up or fall behind. You work, or you’re out. End of story. So why is he still thinking about this? But this time…

He reopens his eyes and scans the room, searching for a distraction. An escape. Anything to silence the noise inside. His desk is like always: impeccably organized. Too much so, maybe. The screens scroll silently, displaying performance reports, AI simulations, financial projections. Numbers, graphs, algorithms. Tangible. Predictable. He could dive in. Forget. Regain control. But his eyes slide over the data without really seeing it. Because, despite himself, he’s still thinking about you. Your collapsed silhouette on the floor. Your ragged breath. That whispered “thank you” pulled from your lips like an apology for existing. And that pisses him off. Not because it’s weakness. Because it got to him. Because it lodged somewhere between his ribs, a tiny detail far too human to simply erase.

After your collapse, your phone had slipped from your pocket—or maybe you dropped it as your body gave up. Stark picked it up silently, placed it on your desk like an object of no importance. But now, it vibrates. Once. Then again. Then again. Insistent. Aggressive. The sound isn’t loud, but in the tense calm of his office, it hits like a hammer. A provocation. A sonic assault disguised as a call. And on the screen, a name Stark doesn’t even need to read twice.

Matthew.

Again. And again. That name flashing, returning, imposing itself. Like an alarm. Like a tick refusing to let go. Stark doesn’t touch the phone. He could. He could pick up, toss a sharp remark, deliver a crisp warning. But he remains still, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen like he could make it explode by sheer will. He doesn’t need to dig deeper. He knows this type of guy. The persistence, the repeated calls, the silence between attempts. It’s a pattern. Clear. Violent in its predictability. A friend sends a message. A stranger leaves a voicemail. A manipulator keeps calling until someone breaks. But Stark has never caved to that kind of pressure. And he has no intention of letting you cave either. He hates it. The vibrating, that name flashing like a parasite—and most of all, what it stirs. Because despite himself, memories surge. Not vague. Not blurry. Precise, photographic.

That night. Stark remembers everything. Not distant. Not vague—clear. Too clear. Like someone pressed “play” inside his skull.

You stepped out of the building, slightly drunk, shoulders low but smiling—still caught in the afterglow of a good night. He’d kept an eye on you. Discreetly. Silently. Because he knew. He saw your fatigue, knew you were standing more from pride than strength. That sometimes, you lose yourself in a semblance of normal just to forget how much it burns underneath. He could’ve let you walk alone. Tossed a “Good night” and gone back to his own life. But he didn’t. He offered to walk you back. A simple reflex, he thought. A precaution. A nearly banal gesture. But in truth, it was more than that. Because Matthew was waiting for you. Not a coincidence. Not bad timing in a big city. No. It was planned. Cold. Calculated. He’d picked that exact moment. He knew you’d be there, at that hour, in that state. And Stark remembers it all, with unbearable clarity.

Your step slowing as you neared the car. Your gaze freezing a second too long. That shiver you didn’t have time to name. You sensed something. A gut twist, a lurch in your stomach. And Stark saw it. Saw your body stiffen, your breath falter for a second. Then chaos. Matthew emerging from the dark, gripping your arm with brutal force. You, surprised, unbalanced, dragged into a narrow alley like a puppet. Alcohol dulled your reflexes. Your body lagged. And then the violence. Your back slamming against the ground. The sharp echo of impact on concrete. Your cry—brief, strangled—almost immediately cut off. The wrist giving out under your own weight, twisted at an angle Stark will never forget. And the knife. That fucking knife. Metal gleaming under a flickering streetlight. Not just a prop. A real threat. Alive. Humming in the night air. Stark remembers Matthew’s voice. Smug. Falsely calm. Drenched in that dangerous arrogance of someone who thinks they’re untouchable. Who knows just how far to go… or maybe hopes to go too far.

He remembers himself accelerating, fists clenched. His voice cutting through faster than his steps. And your face. Not just the pain. Not just humiliation. Fear. Raw. Guttural. Unjust. And that—that—enraged him. More than anything else. Because a lost kid battling himself? Stark can handle that. But a look like that—he’s never been able to stomach it. Not in a kid he pulled from the dirt by the strength of his talent, who’s only just started to get back on his feet. He clenches his jaw.

The phone rings again. Vibrates again. Loud in the stillness of his office. Stark closes his eyes briefly, rubs a hand across his face, weary and frustrated. The coffee in his hand is lukewarm, forgotten. He casts a dark glare at the screen, at that name repeating endlessly. Why now? Why again? That guy should’ve vanished after that night. Should’ve understood. Better yet—he should’ve disappeared. Faded like the parasites do when you crush them. But no. He’s still here. Persistent. Insistent. A damn splinter under the skin.

Stark clenches his jaw. He knows he shouldn’t get involved. It’s not his place. Not his problem. You’re an adult. You should handle your own shit. But there’s that instinct. That goddamn instinct. The one that never fails him. And this vibration—again. That name—again. Like a direct provocation. He hasn’t forgotten that night. The knife. The alley. The fear in your eyes. That wasn’t a meltdown. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a warning. A clear threat. And now, that threat is back—banging at the door like nothing ever happened. Stark doesn’t believe in coincidences. He doesn’t like lingering threats. And he hates guys who haunt his projects like badly buried demons. Another vibration. His gaze sharpens, blade-like. He knows he should let go. Let you handle it.

But he doesn’t.

He grabs the phone in one swift motion, lifts it, stares at it for one last second. The screen glows—provocative. Matthew. And without a word, he answers. He slowly raises the phone to his ear. Says nothing. Not yet. He lets the silence settle—heavy, deliberate. Like a suspended threat. Not a sound. Just the quiet hum of the open line, then… a breath. Slightly too loud. Like someone preparing to play a role.

— “Finally.”

Matthew’s voice cuts in—drawling, falsely bored, oozing fake irritation. As if he’s the one being kept waiting. As if he’s the victim of this silence.

— “I was starting to think you’d never answer, you little shit.”

A faint smile flickers across Stark’s lips. He lets a single, frozen word fall.

— “Surprise.”

And the silence that follows is much heavier than the last. Almost tangible. Matthew wasn’t expecting that. He expected your voice. Your shaky breath. Your hesitation. Not Stark. Not a wall.

— “Who the hell are you?” he finally mutters, suspicion leaking through a tone trying hard to stay confident.

— “Too late to ask questions.”

Stark leans back slowly into his chair, one elbow on the armrest, the other hand still resting on the forgotten cup. His voice is calm, precise as always — but each word is a blade.

— “You call too often for someone who doesn’t know who they’re talking to.”

Silence. Then a dry, nervous chuckle. Matthew tries to recover, or at least pretend he has.

— “So what, he gave you his phone now? Can’t answer by himself anymore?” His voice drips with disdain, every word trailing with fake lightness. He pauses, then adds, mockingly:

— “What are you, Stark — his babysitter?”

Tony’s jaw clenches just a touch, but his voice doesn’t budge.

— “Listen carefully, asshole.”

No yelling. No shouted threats. Just cold, surgical calm. The kind of tone that shuts the loudest mouths. And Matthew, for once, falls quiet.

— “I already warned you last time. Very clearly. But since you seem to have a memory as full of holes as your ego, I’ll say it again. One last time.”

A pause follows, heavy as lead.

— “You’re going to hang up this phone. You’re going to do it now. And you’re going to forget he exists. You’re going to erase him from your pathetic excuse of a life.”

On the other end, a scoff. Matthew tries to gather his nerve again.

— “You’re funny, Stark. You think you scare me?”

Wrong move. Stark doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink.

— “No.”

He tilts his head slightly, voice dropping to a near whisper.

— “But you should.”

Silence. Not a word. Not a breath. Stark stares at the black screen of the phone like he can see right through it. He knows guys like this. The ones who bark to feel bigger. Who think they win by making someone else their target. But they always forget one fundamental truth: He’s faced gods. Monsters. Beings that would’ve reduced this parasite to dust without noticing. And he survived. So no, Matthew doesn’t scare him. But Stark? Stark knows exactly how to terrify rats like him. He leans forward slightly, elbow resting slowly on the desk. His voice becomes even lower, denser, a whisper — but one that cuts straight through any pretense.

— “Let me tell you something, Matthew.”

A pause. Brief but loaded.

— “You already fucked up once. And I was there. I saw what you were willing to do.”

On the other end, Matthew’s breath shifts. Slower. More cautious. A reflex he doesn’t even realize.

— “How do you think it’ll go if you try again?”

The silence stretches — tense like a wire ready to snap. Then Matthew’s voice returns, sharper, but less certain.

— “That’s between me and him.”

A pathetic attempt to regain control. Stark rolls his eyes, lips curling in something close to amused disgust.

— “No, it was. Until you tried to put a knife to his throat.”

He straightens a bit, leaning back again into his chair.

— “You lost that right the day you laid a hand on him. There is no ‘you and him.’”

Each word lands with clinical precision.

— “You. Leave. Him. Alone.”

The silence that follows is glacial. Not a single breath. Just that suspended threat in the air. Stark doesn’t blink. He waits. Then comes a reply. But Matthew’s voice is different now. Lower. Less steady. A last-ditch effort to save face, clinging to whatever control he still believes he has.

— “You might have money, Stark. Power, too.”

A pause. Not theatrical — hesitant.

— “But even you… you can’t control everything.”

Stark doesn’t move a muscle.

— “Try me.”

His voice is quieter than ever. Razor-sharp.

— “And you’ll see what I can control.”

The silence that follows is final. Irreversible. A point of no return. Matthew doesn’t reply immediately. But Stark doesn’t need to hear it to know. He knows what that kind of silence means. Matthew understood. Too late, maybe. But he understood. He thought he could provoke. Intimidate. Gain ground. But now, he’s hit a wall. And he feels it.

— “You’re making a big mistake, Stark.”

A dry, humorless smile twitches at Tony’s mouth.

— “Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you.”

One last pause. Almost resigned. Then the short, sharp click of the call ending. Stark stares at the screen for another second, expression unreadable. No satisfaction. No visible anger. But in his eyes, a darkness that says everything. He slowly places the phone back on the desk, like defusing a ticking bomb. His finger taps the polished wood in an irregular rhythm — a tell of the storm brewing under the surface.

Matthew isn’t stupid.

He knows when he’s lost ground. And if he kept calling this much, it wasn’t panic. It wasn’t desperation. It was strategy. Calculated. He wants something. And with that kind of guy, it’s never a fucking good thing. Stark lets out a sharp sigh, wipes a hand down his face. His eyes remain locked on the phone — still now, but heavy with tension.

He finally sits upright, his back cracking faintly as he moves. His mind already shifts to what’s next. Security. Blind spots. Weak links. He hates this. That diffuse feeling, that gut instinct squeezing tight. But he’s learned to listen to it. Because he feels it. This isn’t over. And next time, it won’t just be a call.

You step out of your room without a sound, closing the door behind you like someone sealing a chapter they have no desire to reread. The hallway air feels fresher, lighter than the air in your room. You’re supposed to be resting, obediently following orders, but lying still, doing nothing, makes you feel like you’re rotting from the inside. It eats at you. You spiral inside your own head, and that’s worse than any fainting spell. Your body is still numb, each step slowly waking muscles stiffened by fatigue and stillness. But you’re on your feet. And for now, that’s enough.

The Tower’s hallways are quiet, bathed in that soft, dim light that makes time feel suspended. A pause in the world, almost too calm to be real. Your footsteps echo faintly on the shiny floor, steady and discreet, like you’re afraid of disturbing the fragile balance. You inhale slowly. The pressure in your chest is still there, subtle, like the remnants of an undigested nightmare. But it no longer crushes everything. You’re moving forward. That’s already something. As you pass an adjacent hallway, a glow catches your eye. Faint, but persistent. Light filters from under the door of the break room, along with the quiet murmur of voices. Not a lively conversation — just the calm breath of a gentle exchange, almost confidential.

Drawn by a mix of curiosity and an instinctive need not to return to the silence of your room, you approach. As you pass the doorway, your eyes immediately catch the two figures sitting by the counter. Pepper and Banner. Still in the moment, like a quiet painting in the middle of the Tower’s invisible turmoil.

Pepper, impeccable as always, is leaning slightly forward, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Her face holds that soft form of concentration — the one she wears when she’s thinking of ten things at once. Banner looks more relaxed, slouched comfortably in his chair, an elbow resting on the table. He seems at ease, but his eyes lift toward you the moment you enter. Sharp. Present. Like he was waiting for you. Pepper is the first to look up.

— “You should be in bed.”

Her voice is calm, almost too calm. No direct reproach, but her gaze doesn’t let go. Piercing. Precise. She evaluates you in a single glance, like she’s waiting for you to collapse again at any moment. You shrug slightly as you move further into the room.

— “I just needed to stretch my legs. No need to call a crisis committee.”

Banner watches you in silence. His fingers gently graze the edge of his mug — a small tic that betrays his focus. He doesn’t speak right away, but you feel his eyes on you. Not intrusive, not suspicious… just attentive. A doctor, before anything else. Pepper folds her arms in that way that says everything.

— “Tony gave you twenty-four hours. That means rest. Not a guided tour of the Tower like nothing happened.”

You sigh slowly, leaning back against the counter, letting the cold surface meet your spine. A small gesture, but it reveals more exhaustion than you’d like to admit.

— “I’m fine.”

The phrase rings hollow, automatic. You know it. So do they. Banner lets out a short laugh — not mocking, but not indulgent either. He shakes his head slightly, looking vaguely amused, vaguely tired.

— “Of course. People who pass out in the middle of meetings always bounce back perfectly in three hours. Everyone knows that.”

You give him a tired look, without real hostility. He doesn’t press. That’s not his style. He just shrugs slightly and takes a slow sip of his coffee before setting the cup down with measured calm, almost meditative. The silence that follows is brief, not heavy, but loaded with unspoken meaning. You can feel they’re waiting for something more honest from you. For you to drop the act — just for a second. But you’re not ready yet. Pepper sighs softly, picking up her cup and slowly rotating it between her palms, eyes lowered as if searching for words in the bottom of the coffee.

— “You know you don’t have anything to prove to anyone, right?”

Her voice has shifted. No longer all order and structure. It’s calm, almost gentle. It catches you off guard. You lift your eyes to her, a little confused. She doesn’t look away.

— “You work hard, we know that. Tony knows it too, even if he’s incapable of saying it without throwing barbs. But if you collapse in the middle of a project, you’ll be far more useless than if you’d just taken the time to recover properly.”

You don’t know what to say. The words stick in your throat. Because deep down, you know. They’re right. But it doesn’t change that feeling stuck to your skin — that idea that if you stop, even for a second, everything will fall apart. That if you ease up, you’ll slip away from yourself. Become invisible again. Become that burden no one wants to carry. But here, in the break room’s dim light, their eyes on you don’t carry the weight of a burden. Not today. You can’t help the slow frustration bubbling up from your stomach — a wave of helplessness you can’t suppress.

— “It was a damn important meeting.”

Your voice is just a hoarse murmur, muffled, but clear enough to draw reaction. Banner nods gently, elbows on the table, hands folded like he’s giving you space to hear yourself.

— “Yeah, that’s true,” he says without downplaying it. “But believe me, Stark handled it. He’s a pain in the ass, but he knows what he’s doing in a meeting room. He covered for you.”

You let out a joyless smile — dry, bitter.

— “Yeah… except when it comes to his own health.”

A brief silence. Then a quiet, sincere laugh escapes Pepper’s lips.

— “Touché.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy, but it hums with things unspoken. A kind of quiet understanding. A discreet complicity, woven in the margins of chaos. You’re not the only one who pushes too hard, burns your wings just trying to stay airborne. You hesitate. The question burns on your lips, but you’re afraid of the answer. Still, you ask it — voice lower, as if that might soften the blow:

— “Did he say anything after the meeting?”

Pepper and Banner exchange a quick look. The kind that says everything. Banner is the one who finally speaks, voice measured but direct:

— “He took your phone.”

Your heart skips a beat. A flash of panic shoots through your chest. You sit up straight, eyes locked on him.

— “What?”

Pepper slowly sets down her mug, her expression more serious now. Almost sorry.

— “You’d left it on the floor. And… let’s just say it got a few calls.”

A cold knot forms in your stomach, thick and viscous, tightening steadily.

— “Who?” you ask, though you already know. You can feel it in their silence. In the tension in the air.

Banner meets your eyes. Doesn’t look away. His voice is calm. Steady. But the words hit like a slap of ice.

— “A guy named Matthew.”

All the air leaves the room. Your blood turns cold.

— “Shit.”

The word escapes in a raspy breath, nearly strangled. Your heart races, breath growing short, erratic. A jolt of adrenaline climbs your spine like an alarm your body can’t shut off. Pepper notices immediately. Her gaze sharpens, anchoring. She doesn’t panic, but her eyes stay alert, ready to move if you falter.

— “Stark picked up,” Banner adds, still calm, but eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for the storm.

You run a shaky hand down your face, trying to push the panic back down. Your jaw tightens. Every muscle in your neck is coiled tight.

— “And?”

One word. Short. Sharp. Like a command you didn’t mean to give. Another glance between them. It infuriates you. Like they think you’re too fragile to hear what really happened. This time, it’s Pepper who speaks.

— “We don’t know exactly what was said. Stark walked out of his office with that look…”

She pauses, searching for the right phrase. Something a little more diplomatic.

— “…the one he gets when someone just signed their death warrant.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers, trying to calm the dull ache pulsing through your skull.

— “Fucking hell…”

You can’t even think clearly. A brief dizziness. Real fear grabs you this time — not for yourself, but for what it means. For what Stark might do. For what Matthew might dare in return. The silence falls again. Heavy. Almost electric. And you understand, without being told, that something just shifted. Banner slowly straightens, resting his elbows on the table in a measured motion. His usually calm gaze sharpens.

— “Who is this guy?”

The question is simple, but it pins you in place. You breathe in deep, eyes locking on a random spot on the counter, like an answer might be etched in the wood grain. Your pulse is still hammering in your temples. You could dodge. Downplay. Pretend it’s nothing. But not anymore. Not after this. Stark knows. And if he knows, then the story’s already surfacing. You slowly lift your head, locking eyes with Banner. Steady. Unflinching.

— “He’s a mistake from the past.”

Your voice is low, frayed at the edges. Every word heavy, soaked in bitterness, anger, shame. You could stop there. But something inside refuses.

— “And if Stark answered… it means that mistake is coming back.”

The silence that follows is too full. So you stand, a little too abruptly. Your chair scrapes against the floor, but you don’t care. Your body still protests, dulled by exhaustion, but your mind is on high alert. You walk out of the break room, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. The conversation with Pepper and Banner loops in your head. Matthew called. Stark answered. And now, you need to know. You need to know what was said. You need to know how far this will go.

The Tower's hallways feel colder than usual. Not in temperature — in atmosphere. As if every corner were holding its breath. Maybe it’s just you. Maybe it’s just your own heart beating too fast, your thoughts racing too far, too fast. But you can feel it: something has changed. You walk briskly, almost without realizing it, as if your body had taken over for your mind. The regular echo of your steps on the polished floor sounds strange, amplifying the dull sense of urgency in your chest.

Matthew. He never let go. He never really disappeared. And now, he’s back in the picture. Lurking on the edges, insistent, insidious. If Stark answered... it means the shadow has drawn closer. You arrive at his office almost automatically. You’re not aware of the distance covered, only of the door in front of you, closed, unmoving. It feels more imposing than it should.

You raise your hand and knock. Once. Then again. No answer. You hold your breath, listen carefully. No sound inside. Nothing distinct. But you know. You feel his presence behind the wall. This silence isn’t empty. It’s loaded. Stark is there. And you have no intention of leaving without talking to him. So you open the door.

It opens slowly, without creaking, but the soft whoosh of displaced air sounds louder than expected. The room is shrouded in semi-darkness. A bluish glow from the screens cuts the space into cold, almost unreal tones. The reflections dance across the metallic surfaces, giving the office the look of a cockpit suspended in space. Stark is there. Still. Seated in his chair, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. He doesn’t look up. Not right away. But you know he heard you. You feel the tension in the room, palpable, suspended between you like a live wire ready to snap. You remain there, standing in the doorway, half-lit by the hallway, half-swallowed by the room’s shadows. Your heart beats faster than you’d like to admit.

He says nothing. And you don’t move yet. You stand there for a few seconds, frozen on the threshold, the weight of uncertainty lodged in your chest. You don’t know if you should step forward or retreat. Speak or stay silent. But your eyes drift toward the desk, despite yourself. And you see it. Your phone. Lying just beside him. Like a silent reminder. He didn’t give it back. He kept it. Your heart skips a beat — imperceptible, but enough to twist your stomach. Finally, Stark breaks the silence. His voice is calm. Too calm. No sarcasm. No arrogance. Just calculated neutrality.

— "You should be in bed, kid."

You don’t answer that. You don’t even look away from the phone.

— "You answered the call."

It’s not a question. You already know. It’s a bare truth, laid bare between you like a freshly drawn blade. This time, he finally looks up at you. And what you see in his eyes stops you cold. No mockery. Not even his usual annoyed half-smile. Just a cold sharpness. Precise. Measured.

— "Yeah."

One word. Dry. Brutal. Your breath shortens, as if an invisible hand had suddenly closed around your throat.

— "What did he say to you?"

Stark doesn’t answer right away. He picks up your phone between his fingers, turns it slowly on itself, using just his index. A seemingly idle gesture, but heavy with tension. He taps it once against the desk. Then again. As if weighing every syllable to come. Finally, he sets the device down with deliberate slowness, leans back into his chair, and says:

— "Nothing smart."

You feel your jaw clench.

— "Stark."

One word, but it holds everything you’re not saying. The fear. The anger. The helplessness. He holds your gaze for a moment, then sighs, both weary and sharp. He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to chase off a migraine, or a thought too stubborn.

— "That guy still thinks he can wear you down. That he can circle around without anyone saying a word. And clearly... he hasn’t been hit hard enough yet to get the message."

You inhale, but the air gets stuck somewhere between your throat and chest. A dull pressure settles — the kind that makes your whole body go rigid in one go. You knew it, deep down. You knew Matthew wasn’t done. But now that Stark confirms it, it’s like everything becomes real all at once. Definitively real.

— "Did he threaten anything?"

A pause. Just long enough for your heart to pound louder. Then Stark’s voice. Still calm. Too calm.

— "He just tried to play tough. Told me even I couldn’t control everything."

You inhale too sharply. Your back curls slightly under the rising pressure. You lean on the desk edge like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

— "Fuck..."

Your hand nervously scrapes your face, trying to wipe away something you couldn’t even name. Shame, maybe. Fear. The exhaustion of constantly being on alert. Stark watches you. He doesn’t move, but you feel his gaze clinging to every gesture — every jaw twitch, every micro tremor in your fingers on the desk. When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Not out of softness — out of precision. A blade held close to the throat.

— "Why does that guy still think he has the right to get near you?"

You raise your head abruptly. His gaze doesn’t let go.

— "Because Matthew’s a fucking bastard." Your voice barely shakes, but it’s enough. "A parasite. He can’t stand losing. He always needs the last word. Always. Even if it means coming back months later, just to... to dirty what’s left."

Your fists close on the edge of the desk. You don’t even know anymore if it’s rage or fear coursing through you. Probably both. Stark doesn’t respond right away. But he watches you. And in that silence, you realize something: he doesn’t just see a messed-up kid on the verge of cracking. He sees a battlefield. And he’s already calculating the best way to neutralize the threat. Then he slowly nods, as if he’s just made a decision that leaves no room for argument.

— "Alright."

You narrow your eyes slightly, wary.

— "Alright what?"

He grabs his coffee, takes a sip, unhurried. The gesture is too calm not to be deliberate. He sets the cup down on the desk with almost clinical precision before lifting his eyes to you.

— "Alright, we’ll deal with it."

You stare at him, a heartbeat behind.

— "What do you mean, we?"

He smirks — the one you’re starting to recognize. The one that never reaches his eyes. And this time again, his gaze remains perfectly impassive.

— "I warned him once. That bastard’s trying again. So now, it’s my problem too."

You feel your breath catch for a second. A strange, almost unreal tension settles in the space between you. You should say something. Protest. Take back control.

— "Stark, this isn’t... this isn’t your role."

But your voice lacks conviction. Because deep down, you know you’re at your limit. This isn’t about pride or dignity. Handling this alone would mean walking right back into the lion’s den. And he saw it. He saw you collapse. Fall. He heard the voice of the one who broke you, and now, he’s decided enough is enough. You want to argue. Really. But you lower your eyes. Because part of you — tiny and broken — exhales in relief. And Stark too. He hasn’t looked away since you walked through that damn door. His gaze is still piercing, still inquisitive, as if trying to read between the lines of your gestures, your voice, everything you’re still refusing to say.

He crosses his arms slowly, a nervous tic briefly tightening his jaw. You see it. He’s irritated. Not because you’re here, but because this problem — this guy, this mess, you — has come back to screw up his radar. And now it’s spilling into his space. Into his business. You sigh deeply, running a hand down your face. The fatigue settles again on your shoulders, no longer physical. You’re tired of having to explain. Tired of the past grabbing you by the collar to remind you it’s not done with you. And seeing Stark involved — concerned, implicated, ready to take it personally — just adds another layer of tension. Like your chaos might infect the fragile balance you were barely starting to build.

So you breathe, the words burning on your tongue.

— "Fine. I’ll go to the police if that’s what you want."

You finally look him in the eye, trying to keep your tone neutral, controlled.

— "But don’t make this personal, Boss."

You reach for the desk, for your phone still lying there, between you like a piece of evidence.

— "And give me back my phone."

Your voice is sharper than you meant, and you regret it instantly. But you can’t help it. The fear, the exhaustion, the maddening feeling of losing control of your own life. You want to at least keep that. That damn phone that, despite everything, still belongs to you. You extend your hand toward the phone, still within reach, like a small gesture of reclaiming control. But Stark doesn’t move. Doesn’t lift a finger. He just watches you, elbows resting on the chair’s arms, his gaze fixed on your face like he’s trying to read a lie you won’t admit. Then slowly, he raises his eyes to yours. And when he speaks, his voice is low, steady — but each word cuts deep.

— "You think the police will get you out of this mess?"

You clench your teeth. Of course he’d say that. Of course he thinks it’s naive. And maybe it is.

— "That’s what they’re for, right?" you mutter, without much conviction.

A short laugh escapes him. Bitter.

— "Yeah. I’m sure they’ll jump right on it. Sit you down in a room that reeks of disinfectant, ask you to recount the worst moments of your life to a cop already checking his watch. Hand you a form to fill out, then file it under personal disputes between consenting adults."

He straightens a bit, crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze sharp as a blade.

— "Meanwhile, that bastard keeps circling, ruining your life. Because guys like him know how to dance between the lines. How to slip through the cracks, manipulate doubt and lack of proof."

You look away, jaw tight. Because you know he’s right. Because you’ve lived it. Because you’ve tried. And each time, it only reinforced that crushing sense of powerlessness. And hearing it from him — with such precision, such clarity — it stings. Because there’s no judgment in his tone. Just harsh, relentless truth. Your gaze darkens. You feel a dull tension rising in you, like a barely restrained beast gnawing at your calm. Your fingers tighten on the edge of the desk until your knuckles turn white.

— "So what? I do nothing? I just sit here and wait for him to come back and ruin me again?"

Your voice is harsher than you meant it to be. Almost an admission of powerlessness disguised as rebellion. Stark doesn’t answer right away. He stares at you. His gaze doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. And maybe that’s what unsettles you the most — the way he looks at you like he’s already run through every scenario, every response, every move you might make. Then, without a word, he reaches out and grabs your phone. The silence between you is heavy, dense. He holds it in his palm for a brief moment, spinning it once between his fingers, before extending it to you. You reach out too, but he keeps the device just a second longer. Not enough to be aggressive, but just enough to make you meet his eyes.

— "You do whatever you want, kid."

The tone is neutral. Almost too neutral. But his gaze tells another story entirely. It says everything the words don’t: I’m giving you freedom, but not the option to self-destruct. You take the phone and shove it into your pocket with a muffled sigh, as he slowly stands. He walks calmly, deliberately, around his desk and leans against the edge, arms crossed, eyes fixed on yours.

— "But if you think I’m gonna sit back and watch him destroy you, then you clearly don’t get how I work."

You swallow slowly. He hasn’t raised his voice. He hasn’t threatened you. It’s not even a promise. It’s just a blunt fact. Unavoidable. And that’s what makes you shiver. There’s no violence in his tone, no anger. Just that icy certainty that he won’t back down. That he’ll go all the way. That he’s taken you under his wing, whether you like it or not. You slide your phone into your pocket, slowly, heart still pounding under the tension. You sigh. Not out of relief. Not yet. Just a breath to keep from bursting.

— "I’ll handle it."

Your voice is firm. You want it to be. Even though deep down, you know you’re mostly trying to convince yourself. Stark nods slowly, his gaze still locked on yours. But his expression doesn’t shift a single inch. No approval. No skepticism either. Just... a silent expectation.

— "Yeah. Do that."

But you know. You can see it in his eyes: he has no intention of just watching. He’s letting you take the lead, sure. But he’s not leaving you alone. And he’s not going to sit idle and see how it turns out. You say nothing more. There’s no need. You turn on your heel, leave the office without looking back.

A few minutes later, the Tower door closes behind you with a metallic sigh. And the crisp outside air hits your face like a slap. A clumsy attempt to shake off the tension that’s been eating at you since Stark handed you that damn phone. But it’s not enough. You inhale deeply. A lungful of icy oxygen that your chest welcomes like a wake-up call. You stare straight ahead. Matthew called. Stark picked up. And now, you don’t have a choice. You’re going to do what you said. Head to the police station. It’s not like you actually believe it’s going to change anything. You’re not naïve. But at least it’ll show Stark you’re trying to "handle it properly." Do things by the book. Check the box. Maybe he’ll back off. Maybe not.

Beside you, Happy walks with his usual heavy step, hands deep in his jacket pockets. He’s got that unmistakable gait — somewhere between professional alertness and total indifference to everything around him. A man used to everything… except playing babysitter.

— "Just so you know, I’m not your damn taxi."

You glance at him, half-bored, half-grateful, and shrug.

— "Yeah, yeah. I know."

You sigh softly, eyes locked on the black car parked just ahead. Of course Stark insisted you be accompanied. He could’ve sent a random security agent, some anonymous face with an earpiece and black sunglasses.

But no. He sent Happy.

Not that you hate Happy. He’s not a bad guy, really. He’s even kind of reassuring, in his massive, silent kind of way. But he’s got that "designated babysitter" vibe you have a hard time tolerating. That forced protective edge, like no one trusts you to walk down the street alone without collapsing. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even sigh. He just circles the car slowly before opening the passenger door for you with a short motion. No comments. No judgment. You get in without protest, sinking into the seat without trying to start a conversation. The door shuts with a dull thud, sealing in a silence neither of you wants to break.

The engine rumbles quietly, and the car rolls into the streets. New York slips by behind the tinted windows — people, lights, distant sirens. You don’t look. You don’t feel. Happy doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t try to fill the silence. But you can feel his eyes on you at every red light, quick glances to make sure you’re still breathing. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. But you feel the pressure rising in your throat. Your heart starts beating faster the closer you get to the station. Because this report… it’s more than a formality. It’s a step toward something you can’t quite name yet. When the silence gets too heavy even for him, Happy finally sighs and mutters in a neutral tone:

— "Why do you think Stark wants me to come with you?"

You don’t even turn your head. Your eyes stay glued to the buildings passing by outside, your reflection blending with the blurred lights of the city.

— "Because he doesn’t trust me."

Your voice is tired, almost resigned. Happy slowly shakes his head, eyes still on the road.

— "No. It’s not you he’s watching. It’s him."

You don’t need to ask who he means. The answer hangs between you like a bitter truth. Matthew. You inhale slowly, trying to calm the pressure building in your chest. But it’s not enough. Because deep down, you know he’s right. They didn’t assign you a bodyguard. They gave you a witness. A buffer. Protection, in case things go south. And if Stark doesn’t trust Matthew… then maybe you shouldn’t still be hoping this will all stop just because you’ve decided it should. Another silence settles in the car. One of those thick silences that doesn’t need an answer — because it’s already been given. You could argue. Insist that you can handle yourself. That Stark’s overreacting as usual, blowing everything out of proportion. But you don’t. Because you both know it’s not true.

So you let it drop.

When the car pulls up in front of the station, nothing has changed since last time. Same gray, worn façade. Same flickering neon signs buzzing like they’re not sure they want to do their job. Cops go in and out, talking, complaining. Some look too rushed to be helpful. Others too slow to be efficient. You stand still for a second in front of the entrance, hands in your pockets, heart clenched with familiar dread. Then you breathe in, deep, like you’re forcing your body forward. Happy stays behind you. He doesn’t say anything. But you feel him. Like a silent wall. Arms crossed. Shoulders square. Ready to step in if needed. And even if you won’t admit it, a small part of you is relieved he’s there.

A police officer behind the counter barely lifts his head at the sound of your steps. His tired eyes flick briefly over you before returning to his screen, as if your arrival were just another interruption in an endless routine.

— "Need help?" he asks in a flat tone, not fully lifting his eyes.

You take a quiet breath, trying to keep your voice steady.

— "I’d like to file a report."

The officer gives a vague nod, then reaches toward a stack of worn-out forms. He grabs one and slides it across the counter toward you, along with an old pen that’s seen better days.

— "Have a seat. You can fill this out while you wait for someone to take your statement."

Not another word. No trace of empathy in his gaze. Just the procedure. The routine. You take the paper and pen, then step back a few paces toward a row of faded gray plastic chairs. Happy follows, sitting beside you. He pulls out his phone, looking detached, but you know he’s scanning the whole precinct with practiced vigilance. He’s the type who never fully turns his radar off. You lower your eyes to the form and start writing. Name, surname, address… your hands barely tremble, but enough to slow you down. The ink drags across the paper in a way that irritates you. Everything feels slower, heavier than usual.

Then come the real questions. Reason for the report. Person involved. You pause. Your eyes freeze on that line. Your heartbeat pounds harder in your chest. A dull, persistent noise. The air seems to contract around you, forcing you to stay completely still.

You write: Matthew Reed.

The name feels too light for what it represents. Just seven letters. But the second you write them, something inside you tightens. As if writing his name on that paper brings him closer. Gives him weight again. You linger a few seconds, pen hovering above the next line. Rationally, you know this is the right thing to do. But a part of you still wonders if it’ll make any difference. If they’ll even do anything.You glance at Happy. He’s not looking at you, but he knows. He knows what writing that name costs you. He probably also knows that this form might end up as just another sheet in a pile too high. But you keep writing. Because now, you can’t back down. Minutes stretch like tar in the heat. The waiting is heavy, slow, and every second reminds you that you’re here because someone stalked you, hit you, threatened you. Eventually, a monotone voice breaks the silence:

— "Follow me."

You stand, a bit stiff. You glance at Happy. He doesn’t move but gives a small nod. A silent presence. Unofficial bodyguard. He’ll be there when you come out. You follow the officer down a dull hallway, lined with cluttered desks and flickering fluorescent lights. The smell is a mix of cold coffee and old plastic. The cop says nothing until he leads you into a small office with yellowed walls. He sits across from you with a sigh, like even this basic interaction is already too much. He takes your form, flipping through it with disinterest. His eyes are dull, mechanical.

— "So… Matthew, right?"

You nod.

— "Yeah."

He jots a few notes into his pad without looking up.

— "Tell me exactly what he did to you."

You take a deep breath. And you talk. You start with the calls. Too frequent, too insistent. You explain how he came back after months of silence, how you thought you could move on. You describe the night, the street, the shadow that tore you off your path. You talk about the knife. Matthew’s voice, acidic, suffocating. The ground against your back. The pain in your wrist. The fear. Not just of dying — of reliving what you thought you’d escaped. The officer listens. He takes notes. But his expression doesn’t change. No raised brows, no tension. As if he’s heard worse a hundred times, and your story is just another box to tick. Still, you keep talking. Because you have to. Because Stark looked you in the eye and said he wouldn’t let you drown in this alone. But you’re not sure these people will react at all.

When you finish, your throat is dry, your hands cold, and your heart pounding like your body refuses to accept that this is over — or that it’s not over at all. You watch the cop, hoping, maybe, for a word of sympathy. A clenched jaw. A real reaction. But there’s none.

He slowly sets his pen down, without a sound, and folds his hands on the desk in front of him.

— "Do you have concrete evidence that he resumed harassing you?"

His voice is calm, almost disinterested. Like he’s asking about a parking ticket. You stare at him in disbelief. For a second, you want to laugh. Is this a joke? You just described someone pinning you to the ground with a knife. And all he can say is concrete evidence?

— "I’ve got his calls," you say, your voice rougher than you’d like. "He kept calling. And Stark talked to him. He picked up."

At the mention of the name, the officer raises an eyebrow. A flicker of recognition, maybe, passes through his gaze — but it vanishes quickly. He shrugs it off like even Tony Stark is just another contextual footnote.

— "Written threats? Messages?" he presses.

You squint, breath short. You think of the phone Stark returned. The missed calls. The vibrations that chilled your blood just seeing his name light up again. You think of the alley. The pain. The hand dragging you to the ground. Matthew’s voice like a razor at your throat. The gleam of the knife, the damp pavement, the breath that caught in your lungs. You answer slowly.

— "I’ve got one. But it’s not much. He knows how this works. He leaves nothing behind. He calls, he talks, he… he threatens just enough for you to get the message, but never enough to pin him down."

You hear yourself talking, and suddenly you realize how hollow it sounds in a room like this. You realize that to someone like him, nightmares don’t weigh anything. No legal status. Just boxes to check on a form. And you already see the shift in his eyes. More distant. More doubtful. Like you’re not a victim. Just another guy making things sound worse than they are. He raises his hand to cut you off, his tone still flat, almost robotic.

— "Look. I won’t lie to you. What you’re saying is concerning. But we can’t do much with just phone calls and an old altercation."

You freeze. His detachment chokes you more than silence ever could. You hear the lights buzzing above you, footsteps from another officer in the hall, and your heart pounding hard against your ribs. You clench your teeth.

— "He threatened me with a fucking knife!" you snap, louder than you meant.

Your voice echoes off the office walls. The officer doesn’t flinch. He lets out a long sigh, like he’s heard that line a hundred times.

— "Did he injure you?"

You look at him, stunned. Your hands tremble slightly. Then, in a sharp motion, you pull up your sweater sleeve. Your right hand is still partially wrapped, a leftover brace on your wrist. Then you show your other hand, palm up. The cut, thin but still fresh, marks your skin where the glass dug in. You don’t say a word. You let him look. His gaze drops slowly to your wounds. He observes, but his expression doesn’t change. No flash of outrage. No moment of realization. Just silence. Calculation. As if weighing their "legal value."

— "Do you have a medical certificate?"

Your throat tightens. You clench your fists. He sets down his pen, looking tired.

— "I can write up an incident report. Mention the calls, your statement, the injuries. But for a formal complaint and investigation, I’ll need more than that. Concrete proof. Witnesses, video, recorded threats. Otherwise… it’s your word against his."

You feel your stomach twist. Everything you’ve endured — the nightmares, the panic, the blood, the fear of running into his shadow — reduced to that: "your word against his." You open your mouth, ready to spill everything you’ve held back for weeks — the terror, the loneliness, the constant sense of being stuck in a nightmare. But he stops you. With a look. Cold. Resigned.

— "I’ll be honest with you." His voice is low, almost tired. "If this guy’s smart, he’ll never go far enough for us to arrest him. But he’ll always go just far enough to ruin your life."

You freeze. Not because it’s shocking. No. Because it’s exactly what you feared to hear. And now it’s real. Stated. Cold. Unfiltered. The raw truth. Institutional powerlessness. The admission that you may never truly beat someone like Matthew. Because his violence isn’t always physical. It’s a slow poison. One no one sees until you’re already on the ground. You feel sick. Your stomach contracts. A bitter taste rises in your throat. The cop slides the form toward you, his gaze barely compassionate. Just… tired.

— "Do you still want to file your report?"

You lower your eyes to the page. The paper looks blurry. Your pen trembles in your fingers, a small witness to everything boiling inside you. You inhale slowly. Very slowly. What’s the point? You ask yourself for the hundredth time. But it’s not enough to stop you. Not this time. Because if you don’t sign, you’ve got nothing. Nothing to stand on if that bastard comes after you again. So you sign. Not out of hope. Not out of faith. Out of necessity. Because it’s all you’ve got left.

When you step out of the station, the dim lights and gray walls seem even duller than when you walked in. It feels like the very air has gotten heavier, saturated with the same grim sense of helplessness you just swallowed down. Happy’s waiting, leaning against the car, arms crossed. It only takes a few steps for him to read your face, your shut-down expression, the tension in your jaw. He lifts an eyebrow, not even remotely surprised.

— "I’m guessing that went well."

You shoot him a sharp glare, exhaustion and anger tangled in loaded silence. He gets it. And more importantly, he doesn’t add anything. Not now. You take a deep breath, trying to contain the pressure burning in your gut.

— "Take me back to the Tower."

He nods without arguing and opens the door. No comment. Just a simple gesture. Practical. You slide into the car and close the door a little too hard, like slamming your failure between the metal and your silence. Happy starts the engine without a word, and you leave that goddamn place behind. It was all for nothing. And you already know who’ll be the first to point it out. The city drifts slowly past the window, bathed in the last orange hues of dusk. Streetlamps flicker on one by one, casting pale glows on sidewalks still scattered with people. Strangers walk by, cars pass — everything looks normal. Too normal. Like the world’s just quietly spinning, oblivious to how you feel.

Inside the car, the silence is thick. The kind you don’t break without reason. Happy drives steadily, hands firm on the wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead. He hasn’t said a word since you slammed the door, but you know his mind’s working as hard as yours. He’s tense. Not because of traffic. Not because of you. Because of what you just brought back. You stare ahead, but you don’t really see. The scenery slips past in a blur, distant and dull. Streets, lights, shadows — all just a silent film on a dirty screen. It was all for nothing.

The report. The waiting. The form. That cop and his jaded face. Just enough listening to pretend, not enough will to act. You replay his expression, the vacant stare when he asked if you still wanted to sign — like filing a report was just a cosmetic choice, a tolerated formality no one intends to follow up on. And now you’re on your way back. Empty. With that bitter sense that all you’ve done was make a pointless detour. That Matthew will keep going. That he’ll come back. Again. Your stomach knots, a heavy lump lodged under your ribs. The pressure doesn’t ease. It pulses. It gnaws. The engine hums softly, like a muffled comfort — or a stifled threat. Meanwhile, the city remains calm. Beautiful. Unbothered. Like nothing happened. Like it’s telling you: not my problem.

Then, everything shatters.

A deafening blast breaks the haze — a sharp, brutal, animal sound. The passenger window explodes into a shower of glass that slashes your arms, your cheeks, your neck. Shards scatter in silver bursts across the cabin, like a swarm of icy splinters. You flinch, but too late. The shock knocks the breath from your lungs. Cold night air whips through the car like a lash. Harsh, biting, violent. It sweeps away the artificial warmth inside, leaving a silence drowned in panic. Then you see it.

The weapon.

Black. Heavy. Slow but certain. Like a hand that already knows how the story ends. It slides through the jagged opening, its silhouette crisp against crossing headlights. Its barrel is pointed straight at Happy’s temple. No scream. No word. Happy is frozen. So are you. Your muscles won’t respond. Your body’s on high alert, but no signals are getting through. The world has shrunk to that black, cold, obsessive circle — that piece of metal that could change everything with a twitch. You hear Happy’s breath, shallow. He stays still. Because he knows. He knows this silence. The one before everything breaks.

And in one suspended heartbeat, you understand: this isn’t an accident. This isn’t random. Someone was waiting. Someone wants this to start again. The voice cracks like a whip. No hesitation. No error. It’s filled with rage — raw, uncontrolled, nearly hysterical. This isn’t a veiled threat. It’s a command shouted by someone already committed to doing harm. He’s not here to steal. He’s here to dominate. To break something — or someone. Your heart slams against your chest. A jarring, uneven, brutal drum. Adrenaline jolts you out of your daze, but instead of empowering you, it crushes you, numbs you. Your breath catches in your throat, burning. Stuck. Every fiber of your being frozen between two impulses: run or obey.

Neither wins. You stay paralyzed.

Happy says nothing. He doesn’t even flinch. He knows. He knows one wrong move — even the slightest twitch — and that finger will squeeze. He stays calm, or at least tries. His hands are visible. His eyes locked on the weapon. On the man. On the trigger.

— "You’re gonna lower that gun and think about what you’re doing, man."

His voice is deep, low. A wall between the attacker and you. No aggression, just a reach for reason — buying a second, maybe two. He speaks slowly, like stepping on glass. But the man doesn’t listen.

— "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

The scream is feral, amplified by the panic flooding your veins. Then — the blow. A dull, sharp, awful thud. The gun slams against Happy’s temple, metal crunching bone with desperate force. The sound echoes through your chest like it was your own skull. Happy grits his teeth. His face contorts, but he doesn’t move. Then he tilts his head. Just enough to look at you. A second. A fraction. And in his eyes, you read everything he can’t say: Run. Save yourself. Don’t be stupid.

But you still don’t move. Because fear has you nailed to your seat. Because your body is betraying your mind. Because one thought loops in your head:

It’s him. It’s Matthew. He looks for a move. But the other is faster. A brutal hand seizes your collar, yanks you with sharp violence. Before your brain can even process it, your body is ripped from the car. Your shoulder slams into the pavement. A blinding flash. A silent scream stuck in your throat. The impact is harsh, dirty. Your head hits the curb — a dull crack followed by instant vertigo. The world tilts, everything blurs. A piercing pain erupts in your arm, like your nerves just short-circuited. You try to move. Try to run. But your body refuses. Then comes the weight. Crushing. A knee drives into your ribs, collapsing your chest, suffocating you. The taste of blood fills your mouth — metallic, sharp. Cold night air rips through you as something icy touches your chin. The barrel. You know it by feel. By weight. By the silent threat it carries. Your throat tightens. You choke. His breath is ragged, uneven. He reeks of rage, sweat, and wild panic. He’s shaking. Not from fear. From tension.

— "You thought you’d get away?!" he spits, voice rasping like a growl.

His bloodshot eyes lock on yours with concentrated, searing hatred. You want to speak. Scream. Beg maybe — you’re not even sure — but no sound comes. All you feel is this goddamn certainty drilling into your skull: this time, he came to finish it.

Matthew.

You don’t need to see his face. Even with the mask, even in the dark, you recognize that voice. That hatred in every syllable, that sick fire burning through each word. Warped by rage. Twisted by the need to crush you.

— "You think he can protect you?!"

He spits the words like venom, each syllable soaked in scorn. His breath is shaky, too close to your face. You feel it — hot, trembling with caged violence. His weight suffocates you. Your lungs can’t expand. Every breath is a struggle. Adrenaline pulses in your skull, fries your nerves, electrifies your muscles. You fight back. Your arms reach for leverage, your legs kick to push him off. But he’s heavier. More grounded. He always was. He always knew how to pin you down. And he proves it again. A hand strikes — quick, dry, brutal. Your cheek explodes in pain, heat flaring across your jaw. Your skull smacks the concrete again. A white flash crosses your vision, followed by queasy blur. The taste of blood returns — bitter.

The barrel. It trails across your skin, like an obscene caress. From forehead to chin. Then it stops. Presses beneath your jaw. Forcing you to look up, to meet his eyes, even masked. You’re exposed. Helpless.

— "You’re coming with me. Nicely."

His voice is calm now. Too calm. Like a predator certain the prey can’t escape. Pressure. A warning. A finger ready to squeeze. The silence around you is chilling. City noise fades — distant, indifferent. Cars pass. People, maybe. But no one sees. No one hears. Or worse — no one stops. The world keeps turning. But you’re frozen. Suspended between two heartbeats. And deep down, you know: one second is all it’ll take. But you’re stuck. Pinned to the ground. Crushed under him. Under his fucking gun. Every second stretches like a blade hovering over your throat. There’s no escape. You know it — in one beat, you obey or he pulls the trigger. And no one can stop it. Not in time. Not here.

The gun doesn’t tremble. It’s steady. Inevitable. Like it’s part of you now. You feel the tiny pulses in his finger resting on the trigger, each one a promised end. Your breath is ragged, reduced to weak spasms. Your throat too dry, chest about to burst. Your heart hammers so loud you hear it in your ears. THUD. THUD. THUD.

And far off, almost unreal — Happy’s voice. A shout. A command. But the words don’t reach you. Everything’s fog. Blur. Matthew yanks you upward, his grip choking your neck. You gasp. You stagger. Your body won’t follow. But he doesn’t care. He drags you like a hollow carcass, a prize already claimed. No mercy. No pause.

Your back slams into a parked car. The impact rips a muffled cry from your throat. Metal shrieks. Your shoulder scrapes against it, tearing your jacket, your skin. The pain stings — sharp, burning. You lose your footing — your leg collapses, your knee hits asphalt — but Matthew doesn’t slow. He holds you upright by force, refusing to let you fall before he’s done. And suddenly — the gunshot. CRACK. A dry, tearing sound that splits the air. A sound that freezes your blood. You don’t know where he aimed. Not even if it was at Happy or the sky. But you hear the screams. The rushed footsteps. People scattering. Eyes turning away.

The city fades. And you stay there. Trapped in a scene no one dares to interrupt. A nightmare too real. No one’s coming to save you.

taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix if you want to be part of it here

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darl-ingfics · 2 months ago

Note

2 for hongjoong & seonghwa hehe. hongjoong being the one sneezing since it’s rare for him

I mixed this with the request for Seonghwa #10.

2 "You never sneeze this much. Are you sure you're feeling okay?" and 10 "One more sneeze and you're going to bed.”

“Hello?” Hongjoong asked, peeking his head around the doorframe. Seonghwa was already looking at the door. He freed one hand from his blankets and waved. The captain smiled fondly as he pushed further into the room. “Glad to see you actually awake.”

“Barely,” Seonghwa rasped, voice thick with sleep. He winced as he swallowed, and didn’t pull away when Hongjoong’s hand met his clammy forehead. “I feel detached from my body.”

“Hey, that’s the most coherent sentence I’ve heard from you in the past two days,” Hongjoong snickered, turning to the armful of goodies he had brought into the room with him: freshly filled water bottle, protein bar, flu medicine (the gross kind, unfortunately, it was all that was left).

A week and a half ago, Jongho had started feeling a little under the weather, and had locked himself away in his room when that little off feeling rapidly devolved into obvious illness. Unfortunately, Wooyoung could pick locks. So the whole team had gone down with the flu. Everyone except Hongjoong. He’d had Seonghwa for the first week, but the captain had been forced to confine his second-in-command to bed two days ago after he’d noticed the elder sniffling more than usual. Of course, Seonghwa being Seonghwa, he’d kept nursing the others until Hongjoong had had to make good on his threat, "One more sneeze and you're going to bed,” physically manhandling the taller man into his room. And once he’d stopped moving, Seonghwa’s body completely gave up, leaving him at the mercy of his loving, but very overworked, best friend.

“How’re the kids?” Seonghwa asked, watching Hongjoong measure out a capful of the (disgusting, terrible, ew) medicine.

“They’re fine.” Hongjoong passed the cup over, and Seonghwa shot it back without complaint out of respect for Hongjoong’s sanity. “Focus on you.”

“I can’t when I’m worried about them…. And you.”

Hongjoong leveled him an unamused look. “I’m fine, Hwa.”

“You look tired.”

“I am tired. Playing nurse to seven grown men is exhausting.”

“I can help…”

“You can’t even stand.” Hongjoong pushed Seonghwa back into his bed when the elder tried to throw off his blankets. “Please, Hwa, stop worrying. It can’t be helping your fever.” Seonghwa was unable to stop worrying, though, as Hongjoong ended his statement by turning to the side and catching a harsh sneeze in his sleeve.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Seonghwa asked, propping himself up on an elbow. “You never sneeze this much.”

Hongjoong scoffed, a playful grin on his face. “I would argue a single sneeze is pretty normal for me…”

“Not the fit from earlier.”

Hongjoong’s lips pressed into a tight line. Damn. He’d assumed he’d gotten away with that, given that the entire team had supposedly been knocked out on cold meds at the time. Truth be told, Hongjoong knew he was on borrowed time; his immense system could only take so much, and he could already feel his defenses fumbling. But Seonghwa didn’t need to know that because Seonghwa was already fully ill and would jump up and take over again if he knew how Hongjoong really felt. And Hongjoong couldn’t have Seonghwa pushing himself like that.

So Hongjoong shook his head. “Hwa, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. You need to focus on you right now.”

“Joong…”

“Shhhhh.” The captain smiled, warm and comforting. “Park Seonghwa, I am fine, and you need rest. Stop arguing with me, and go back to sleep.”

While Seonghwa had stopped arguing, he refused to stop worrying and was hardly able to sleep until he felt Hongjoong snuggle into bed next to him later that night. And then, knowing that his best friend was finally getting the rest he needed too, Seonghwa was able to relax.

#ateez sick #ateez sickfic #kpop sickfic #kpop sick #sickie seonghwa #caretaker hongjoong #sickie hongjoong #darlingfics #darling drabbles #anon requests

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keehomania · 11 months ago

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faded (사라졌다) — jeong jaehyun (정재현)

✧.* 18+

in the dim light of the abandoned warehouse, shadows wove intricate patterns across the walls, a testament to the broken windows and the remnants of long-forgotten machinery. the air was thick with the pungent odor of decay, and the floor was strewn with shattered glass and rusting metal scraps. amid this desolation, a figure moved with an unsettling grace, a quiet elegance that seemed incongruous with the setting.

his eyes, sharp and cold, scanned the room with a calculated detachment. they were like twin shards of ice, reflecting a mind that saw the world not as a tapestry of human experiences but as a cold, dispassionate experiment. he was a sociopath, a term that had been plastered across his dossier and whispered among his colleagues, yet the reality of it was far more profound than any clinical definition.

to observe him was to witness the eerie beauty of a machine in motion, devoid of the warmth that usually defined human interactions. his movements were precise, almost mechanical, each step measured and deliberate. the absence of empathy was not merely a gap but an abyss where emotions should have been. when he spoke, his voice was smooth and calculated, a perfect instrument of persuasion devoid of the imperfections of genuine human emotion. his words were delivered with a chilling calmness that could disarm and manipulate with equal ease.

yet, in his eyes, there was something more than mere coldness—a profound emptiness that spoke of a soul stripped of emotional resonance. it was as if he viewed the world through a glass barrier, witnessing the intricacies of human suffering and joy without ever truly engaging with them. this detachment granted him a chilling clarity, allowing him to observe and exploit the weaknesses of others with unnerving efficiency. he could mimic the gestures of kindness and concern, but they were nothing more than hollow echoes of what he could not feel.

the warehouse was his sanctuary, a place where he could revel in his isolation and indulge in the dark thoughts that occupied his mind. here, away from the prying eyes of society, he was free to dissect the nature of his own being and the roles he played. in the flickering light of a solitary bulb, he contemplated the human condition with a dispassionate curiosity. the contradictions of his existence fascinated him—how he could so easily simulate emotions he could never truly experience, how he could manipulate others with a mere flicker of charm, and how he remained untouched by the very forces that drove others to despair or elation.

as he stood amidst the debris, a sense of profound solitude enveloped him. He was a being of intellect and precision, existing in a world of feelings he could never truly grasp. his mind was a labyrinth of strategy and calculation, each thought meticulously honed to serve his purpose. he was a creature of logic in a realm of chaos, a master of a game whose rules he understood but whose essence remained forever beyond his reach.

and yet, despite this chilling detachment, there was an undeniable truth that lingered in the shadows of his consciousness. beneath the veneer of calculated indifference and the mask of emotional vacancy, he was still human. his actions, though devoid of conventional empathy, were driven by a deeply rooted sense of self-preservation and a pursuit of his own desires. in his solitary reflections, there was a flicker of the same existential questioning that plagued the rest of humanity—a search for meaning, a quest for identity, and a confrontation with his own mortality.

in that abandoned warehouse, amidst the debris of a world he navigated with clinical precision, the true nature of his humanity lay bare. it was not in the warmth of human connection or the depth of emotional engagement but in the quiet recognition of his own existence. he was still bound by the same inescapable truths that defined all humans—the quest for understanding, the struggle for control, and the inevitable confrontation with his own limitations. it became clear that despite his chilling detachment and calculated demeanor, he was still human, after all.

jeong jaehyun stumbled out of the warehouse, the weight of his actions pulling him down like a leaden shroud. the night air was crisp and harsh against his skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating gloom he had just escaped. his hands, stained with fresh blood, trembled uncontrollably as he stared at them in horror. the crimson splatters seemed to mock him, painting a grotesque tableau of the violence that had just transpired. each step he took was uncertain, as if the ground beneath him could give way at any moment. his mind raced, trying to make sense of the chaos, but the cold, rational part of him remained eerily detached.

as he wandered onto the street, his disheveled figure moving erratically, a car approached in the distance. jaehyun's gaze was fixed on the bloodied hands, his thoughts mired in a growing sense of doom. the headlights of the car grew brighter, and he vaguely registered the sound of its engine roaring closer. to him, it seemed as though the man in the sky was reaching down to punish him for his sins, an abstract punishment for a crime he felt he could never fully comprehend.

the car’s headlights blinded him as it neared, and with a sudden, frantic lurch, he realized he was standing in the middle of the road. instinctively, he threw up his hands, but the vehicle did not slow. the screech of tires and a sharp, agonized honk pierced the night as you slammed the brakes, narrowly avoiding hitting him. the car skidded to a stop, its headlights illuminating his battered form.

your eyes widened in shock as you took in the sight before you. you rushed out of the car, your heart pounding with adrenaline. jaehyun, in his state of shock and confusion, flinched as you approached. he was convinced that you were another threat, someone who had come to finish what had been started. but as you drew closer, your gaze softening with unexpected concern, he was taken aback.

“get in the car,” you said abruptly, ignoring his stunned expression and the blood on his hands. your tone was calm, almost serene, a stark contrast to the tension that crackled in the air. he stared at you, bewildered. “who are you?”

you didn’t respond immediately. instead, you gestured toward the open car door, a silent invitation. with no better options and an overwhelming sense of dread, he climbed into the back seat, his movements slow and hesitant. as you slid back into the driver’s seat and shut the door, you glanced at him through the rearview mirror. your eyes met his, and to his utter disbelief, you smiled. “why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with disbelief. “it’s good karma,” you replied with a gentle, enigmatic smile.

jaehyun stared at you in stunned silence, the absurdity of the situation washing over him. “it’s hard to believe you’d help a stranger everyone wants dead.” you chuckled softly, the sound almost musical. “well, you’d have to keep that a secret. my brother’s a cop.” for the past month, his face had been plastered on the screen of every news channel imaginable, as he had been one of the prime suspects regarding the suicide of a high school teacher. one that turned out to be a homicide in disguise.

his eyes widened in shock, and a heavy silence filled the car. you glanced back at his bloodied hands in the mirror. “you must’ve done it, judging by what just happened,” you said. he shook his head vehemently. “i didn’t do it,” he said, his voice raw and earnest. “i didn’t kill anyone. i gave the guy a good beating, that’s all.”

you smiled softly as you turned into your driveway, the car coming to a smooth halt. “he must’ve deserved it,” you said, your tone light and almost amused. jaehyun sat in stunned silence, his thoughts swirling in a tempest of confusion and fear. as the car settled, he looked at you, a mixture of gratitude and wariness in his eyes. in this fleeting encounter, he had found a peculiar semblance of solace, a stark contrast to the chaos that had so recently defined his life.

you guided jaehyun into your home, your hand gentle yet firm on his arm as he stumbled over the threshold. the dim lighting of your hallway cast long shadows, but there was a warmth in the air that contrasted sharply with the cold, sterile atmosphere of the warehouse he had just left behind. his breath came in short, ragged gasps, and he could feel the weight of the night pressing down on him, thick and suffocating.

“don’t worry,” you said softly, catching his wary glance toward the door. “my brother’s working the night shift. we won’t be disturbed.”

his skepticism lingered in his eyes, a dark cloud of doubt that refused to dissipate. but he nodded, too exhausted and disoriented to argue. you led him further inside, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound that accompanied your footsteps. the house was modest, cozy, with a lived-in feel that suggested safety, a stark contrast to the barren emptiness he had known for so long. there were framed photos on the walls—smiling faces, captured memories that spoke of a life filled with love and warmth. it was a world so foreign to him, yet so alluring in its simplicity.

you brought him into the bathroom, the light flickering on with a quiet hum. the stark white of the tiles seemed almost too bright against the dark stains on his hands, a brutal reminder of the violence that had so recently unfolded. you turned on the faucet, the water rushing forth in a steady stream, and guided his hands beneath it. the warmth of the water was soothing against his skin, but it did little to wash away the guilt that gnawed at the edges of his mind.

as you gently scrubbed his hands, he watched you intently, his eyes never leaving your face. there was a calm determination in your expression, a focus that belied the gravity of the situation. you didn’t flinch at the sight of the blood, nor did you recoil in fear. instead, you worked methodically, your touch gentle and sure, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. mever had he encountered someone so sympathetic, so willing to help without question, so utterly fearless in the face of danger.

when his hands were finally clean, you handed him a towel, your fingers brushing against his as you did so. “come with me,” you said, your voice soft and inviting. he followed you down the hallway, past the living room where a small lamp cast a warm glow over the furniture, and into a bedroom. you opened the closet, pulling out one of your brother’s shirts—a simple white button-down, clean and neatly folded. “here,” you said, handing it to him. “it should fit you.”

jaehyun hesitated, the shirt hanging limply from his grasp. “why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper. you looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. there was no fear in your gaze, only a quiet understanding that seemed to pierce through the layers of detachment he had built around himself. “because you need help,” you replied simply. “and because i can.”

he studied your face, searching for any sign of deceit or ulterior motive, but found none. there was only sincerity, a rare and precious thing in his world. with a nod, he began to change, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were testing the reality of the situation. you turned your back to give him privacy, busying yourself with gathering the discarded clothes. he slipped into the shirt, the fabric cool against his skin, and as he buttoned it up, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of comfort—a sensation he hadn’t experienced in what felt like a lifetime.

once he was dressed, he looked at you, a question lingering on his lips. “how are you so sure i won’t kill you?” you turned to face him, that same soft smile playing on your lips. “because i know you’re not a killer,” you said, your tone light yet firm, as if the idea was the most obvious truth in the world.

the words struck him like a bolt of lightning, sending a shockwave through his mind. never had he heard those words before—words of belief, of trust. they resonated deep within him, filling a void he hadn’t realized existed. for so long, he had been defined by what others saw in him, by the darkness they projected onto him, but in this moment, you saw something different. and god, did it feel good to hear those words.

you led him to the kitchen next, the warm, inviting space filled with the faint scent of spices and home-cooked meals. he sat down at the table, his body tense and alert, while you moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. the sound of pots and pans clinking together, the hiss of the stove as you lit the burner, the gentle hum of the refrigerator—it all blended into a soothing symphony that lulled his mind into a state of wary calm.

as you cooked, he watched you closely, unable to tear his eyes away. there was a grace to your movements, a quiet confidence that radiated from you. It fascinated him, this effortless display of empathy and care. he wondered how someone could be so willing to help, so fearless for their own safety, when he had seen the worst of humanity.

you placed a simple meal in front of him—a bowl of soup, steaming hot, with a slice of bread on the side. the aroma was comforting, a reminder of something he couldn’t quite place, something from a past life that felt more like a distant dream. he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the smell hit his senses, and his stomach tightened in response.

“thank you,” he said quietly, almost as if the words were foreign to him.

you smiled, watching him as he took his first hesitant bite. there was a vulnerability in his expression, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite name. you studied his face, the sharp lines of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes, and wondered how someone could seem to lack so much empathy. what had shaped him into this detached, calculating figure? what had stripped away the warmth and left only coldness behind? but despite the questions swirling in your mind, you didn’t pry. you simply let him eat in peace, your presence a quiet reassurance in the background.

when he was finished, you took the dishes away, your movements gentle and unhurried. the night was wearing on, and you could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a heavy burden. you led him to a small guest room, the bed neatly made with fresh linens. it was a modest space, but it was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile environments he was used to. “i’ve made up the bed for you,” you said, smoothing out the blankets one last time. “you should get some rest.”

he stood there, hesitant, as if the idea of sleep was something foreign to him. but as he looked at you, your kindness and calm demeanor slowly chipping away at his defenses, he nodded. “thank you,” he said again, the words feeling more natural this time, though still tinged with disbelief.

you gave him one last smile before stepping out of the room, closing the door softly behind you. the silence that followed was almost deafening, and as jaehyun sat on the edge of the bed, his mind raced. he couldn’t rest, not with the chaos swirling in his thoughts. the events of the night replayed over and over, but now they were interwoven with images of you—your calm smile, your gentle touch, your unwavering belief that he was something more than what the world saw.

he lay down, staring up at the ceiling, but sleep refused to come. the bed was too soft, too comfortable, and his mind was too restless. he turned over, his eyes drifting to the door, half-expecting you to return, to tell him it had all been a mistake, that you had seen him for what he really was—a monster, a sociopath, someone incapable of true human connection. but the door remained closed, and the only sound was the faint hum of the house settling around him. in the stillness of the night, jaehyun’s thoughts were consumed by you—his unlikely savior. he couldn’t understand it, couldn’t comprehend why you had helped him, why you had risked so much for someone like him. the warmth of your smile lingered in his mind, a beacon in the darkness that threatened to engulf him. and as he lay there, staring into the void, he realized that for the first time in a long while, he felt something. it wasn’t quite hope, but it was close—a faint glimmer of something better, something he had long since forgotten.

but sleep still eluded him. his mind raced with thoughts of you, and the fear that it was all too good to be true gnawed at him. he couldn’t shake the feeling that this kindness, this sanctuary, would vanish as quickly as it had appeared. but for now, in this quiet room, he allowed himself to believe, if only for a moment, that he wasn’t completely alone in the world.

jaehyun awoke to the soft light of dawn filtering through the thin curtains, casting delicate shadows across the room. for a moment, he remained still, his mind drifting in the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. the events of the previous night felt like fragments of a distant dream, too surreal to be real. but as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, the solid reality of his surroundings began to settle in. the warmth of the bed beneath him, the quiet hum of the house, the faint scent of something comforting in the air—it all grounded him, pulling him back to the present.

he turned his head slightly and saw you standing in the doorway, your presence calm and reassuring. you were watching him with a soft smile, as if you had been waiting for him to wake up. the sight of you, so real and tangible, dispelled any lingering doubt he had. this wasn’t a dream. you were real. the kindness you had shown him, the safety you had provided—it was all real.

“good morning,” you greeted him softly, your voice a gentle lull in the quiet room. jaehyun sat up slowly, his body still stiff and sore from the night before. “morning,” he replied, his voice rough from sleep. he hesitated, unsure of what to say next. the words felt heavy on his tongue, weighed down by the unfamiliarity of expressing gratitude. but when he looked into your eyes, the sincerity there made it easier. “thank you, again.”

you shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “there’s no need to thank me, kaehyun. i’m just glad you’re okay.” there was a pause, a silence that felt both comforting and heavy with unspoken words. he broke it first, glancing at the clock on the wall. “i should get going. i have a busy day ahead of me.”

you nodded, understanding, though there was a hint of concern in your eyes. “qre you sure you don’t want any breakfast before you go? it’s no trouble at all.” he shook his head, standing up from the bed and straightening his borrowed shirt. “no, i need to get moving. but i appreciate the offer.”

you walked him to the door, the quiet of the morning enveloping you both as you stepped into the hallway. “take care of yourself,” you said, your voice filled with genuine concern. “i’ll see you around?” jaehyun paused at the doorway, turning to look at you one last time. there was something in your eyes, something that tugged at a place deep inside him that he had long thought dead. he didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know how to make sense of the connection that seemed to have formed between you in such a short span of time. but he nodded, the gesture small but full of unspoken meaning. “yeah,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “i’ll see you around.”

with that, he stepped out into the cool morning air, the door closing softly behind him. the world outside was still waking up, the streets quiet and the sky painted with the soft hues of dawn. as he walked, the events of the previous night replayed in his mind, each step taking him further from your home but not from the thoughts of you. your kindness lingered with him, a warmth that refused to fade even as the cold morning air bit at his skin.

as jaehyun made his way down the street, lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the car approaching from behind until it slowed down beside him. he glanced over, his eyes locking with those of the driver—a man with a stern expression, his gaze sharp and scrutinizing. there was something familiar about him, something that sent a shiver down his spine. the man’s eyes flicked down to the shirt jaehyun was wearing, recognition dawning in his features. it was your brother.

the moment seemed to stretch on forever, the tension between them palpable in the air. jaehyun’s heart pounded in his chest, the sudden realization that your brother knew who he was, and more importantly, what he was suspected of. he could see the gears turning in your brother’s mind, the connection being made between the shirt jaehyun wore and the one hanging in your brother’s closet. it was a small detail, but it spoke volumes.

the car sped off, leaving jaehyun standing in the middle of the sidewalk, a chill running down his spine that had nothing to do with the morning air. he cursed under his breath, realizing the trouble that was now headed your way. but what could he do? what could he say that would make a difference? he shook his head, forcing himself to keep walking, but the image of your brother’s piercing gaze stayed with him, a stark reminder that his problems were far from over.

meanwhile, your brother drove in silence, his mind racing with thoughts of you and the man he had just seen wearing his shirt. his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his mind filled with the gruesome images from the case that had been haunting him for weeks—the case he was sure jaehyun was involved in. he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong, that you were in danger, and it was all because of that man.

he pulled into the driveway with a screech, his anger bubbling just below the surface as he stepped out of the car. he slammed the door shut and marched into the house, his footsteps heavy and filled with purpose. the moment he saw you in the kitchen, his eyes narrowed, his voice laced with barely contained fury.

“were you with him?” he demanded, his tone sharp and accusing. you turned to face him, surprised by the sudden intensity in his voice. but you didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. you met his gaze head-on, your own expression calm but firm. “yes,” you admitted, your voice steady. “i was with jaehyun.”

your brother’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “are you out of your mind?” he snapped, the anger finally spilling over. “do you have any idea who that man is? what he’s accused of?” you held your ground, refusing to let his anger sway you. “he didn’t do it,” you said softly, but there was a conviction in your voice that made your brother pause.

“how do you know?” he demanded, his voice rising with frustration. “how can you be so sure he’s not playing you? that he’s not dangerous?” for the first time, you hesitated, the answer on the tip of your tongue but too complicated to put into words. you couldn’t explain the way you just knew, the way you had looked into jaehyun’s eyes and seen something that no one else seemed to see—something that told you he wasn’t capable of the horrors he was being accused of. but how could you explain that to your brother? how could you make him understand?

your silence spoke volumes, and your brother shook his head in disbelief, his expression a mix of anger and fear. “you’re too trusting,” he said finally, his voice tinged with desperation. “you can’t just believe in everyone. this isn’t some fairy tale where the bad guy turns out to be good in the end. this is real life, and people like him, they don’t change.”

“he’s not who you think he is,” you tried to argue, but your brother cut you off, his frustration boiling over. “stay away from him,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “i don’t want you anywhere near him. if you see him again, you call me. do you understand?”

you looked at him, your heart aching at the fear and anger in his eyes. you knew he was only trying to protect you, to keep you safe, but you also knew that he was wrong about jaehyun. but what could you do? you couldn’t fight him on this, not without risking a rift between you. so you nodded, even though every fiber of your being wanted to protest, to argue that jaehyun wasn’t the monster your brother believed him to be. “fine,” you said quietly, your voice tinged with resignation. “i’ll stay away.”

the morning air was thick with the promise of rain as you made your way to the local store. the clouds overhead hung heavy and dark, a stark contrast to the bright resolve in your heart. you had no intention of staying away from jaehyun, no matter what your brother had said. there was something in the way jaehyun looked at you, something in the depth of his eyes that told you he wasn’t what the world believed him to be. your brother’s words echoed in your mind, but they couldn’t drown out the quiet, persistent certainty you felt. so, you went about your day as planned, pretending that nothing had changed, that your brother’s warning wasn’t still ringing in your ears.

the store was quiet when you arrived, the usual hum of life dulled by the oppressive weight of the storm that threatened to break. you wandered the aisles, picking out the things you needed—a few groceries, some toiletries, nothing too out of the ordinary.bBut as you reached for a carton of milk, you couldn’t help but wonder if you should pick up something extra, something you might offer jaehyun should you cross paths with him again. the thought brought a small smile to your lips, a secret shared only with yourself.

your basket filled, you made your way to the register, exchanging pleasantries with the cashier as you paid for your items. the moment you stepped outside, however, you were met with the harsh reality of the storm that had been building all morning. the rain came down in sheets, pounding against the pavement with a ferocity that took you by surprise. you paused just outside the door, bags in hand, as the rain soaked through your clothes almost instantly. you raised an arm to shield your head, but it did little to protect you from the downpour.

you cursed under your breath, glancing around for any cover you could find, but the rain was relentless. it was as if the heavens had opened up, and you were caught in the middle of it with no escape. you shivered, the cold seeping through your clothes, and just as you were about to resign yourself to the wet, uncomfortable walk home, you felt something warm and dry settle over your head.

startled, you looked up, your heart skipping a beat as you found jaehyun crouched beside you, his jacket held above both your heads as a makeshift umbrella. his presence was like a jolt of electricity, unexpected yet oddly comforting. his face was calm, expressionless even, but his actions spoke louder than words ever could. “where did you come from?” you asked, your voice laced with surprise as you stared at him.

he didn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed ahead as he guided you under the shelter of his jacket. “it doesn’t matter,” he finally said, his tone flat, almost detached. “you’re going to catch a cold if you stay out here.” there was something so inherently touching in his words, a care that seemed almost out of place given the stoic expression on his face. his voice was devoid of emotion, but the simple act of shielding you from the rain said more than any words ever could.

a small, amused smile tugged at the corners of your lips despite the rain. “you must feel like a gentleman,” you teased lightly, trying to coax a reaction out of him.

he looked at you then, his dark eyes reflecting the storm around you both. “i think it’s better not to feel,” he replied, his voice as calm and steady as the rain pouring down around you. you couldn’t help but scoff, shaking your head slightly. “yeah, right,” you murmured, though there was no real bite to your words. you knew better than that. he might try to hide it, but you could see the turmoil beneath the surface, the conflict he kept buried deep within.

without another word, jaehyun guided you toward the bus stop, his jacket still held protectively over your head. the rain continued to fall in torrents, but the small shelter of the bus stop provided some relief. you both stepped under it, and jaehyun finally lowered his arm, letting the jacket fall to his side.

“thank you,” you said, your voice soft as you looked up at him. the rain had plastered your hair to your face, and you could feel the cold biting at your skin, but you couldn’t help the warmth that spread through your chest at his gesture. “that was really kind of you.” he shrugged, his expression still guarded. “it’s the least i can do.”

there was a pause, the sound of the rain filling the silence between you. you studied him, noting the way his hair clung to his forehead, the way his clothes were as drenched as yours. and yet, there was a quiet strength in him, a resolve that made you believe he would do this all over again if it meant keeping you safe. “are you headed home?” you asked, breaking the silence. he nodded, his gaze flicking to the side before returning to you. “yeah, but i hope to see you soon.”

something about the way he said it, so simple yet so heavy with unspoken meaning, made your heart flutter in your chest. before you could respond, jaehyun turned to leave, the jacket still clutched in his hand. but instead of taking it with him, he draped it over your shoulders, the warmth of the fabric immediately comforting against your cold, wet skin. you opened your mouth to call after him, to tell him to take it back, but before you could get the words out, he was already gone, disappearing into the rain like a ghost. you stood there for a moment, the jacket draped over your shoulders and the scent of him lingering in the air around you. the rain continued to fall, but it was as if the world had gone still, the only sound the steady rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears.

you pulled the jacket tighter around yourself, a small smile playing on your lips as you turned back toward the bus stop, the weight of his actions settling over you like a warm blanket. despite everything—your brother’s warnings, the suspicions that surrounded him—you knew you couldn’t stay away from him. there was something in him, something that called to you, something that made you want to believe in him. and as you waited for the rain to let up, you knew deep down that this wouldn’t be the last time your paths crossed.

jaehyun’s apartment was a place where silence reigned, a heavy, oppressive silence that seemed to seep into the walls, swallowing any hint of life or warmth. the space was eerily empty, devoid of anything that might give it the feeling of a home. the only light came from a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long, harsh shadows across the room. the walls were bare, painted a dull, lifeless gray that matched the concrete floor beneath his feet. there was no furniture, save for a single chair in the center of the room, where the cries of a man echoed off the walls, growing louder with each passing second.

the man in the chair struggled against his restraints, his hands tied tightly behind his back, his arms bound to the sides of the chair. q towel was wrapped around his face, tucked cruelly into his mouth, muffling his desperate pleas. his eyes were wild with fear, darting around the room, searching for some escape, some way out of this nightmare. but there was none. the only thing he could see was jaehyun, standing in front of him, his expression as cold and emotionless as the room itself.

his eyes were fixed on the man, unblinking, as he crouched down in front of him, bringing himself to eye level. his face was a mask of indifference, betraying no hint of the thoughts that might be running through his mind. he didn’t speak right away, didn’t acknowledge the man’s muffled cries. instead, he simply watched, his gaze steady and unyielding, as if he were looking right through him, into the very core of his being.

the man’s cries grew louder, more frantic, as he realized there was no mercy in those cold eyes staring back at him. he shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the towel from his mouth, trying to make himself heard, to beg for his life. but jaehyun didn’t move, didn’t react. he simply waited, letting the man exhaust himself in his futile struggle, until finally, his movements slowed, his cries turning to quiet, broken sobs.

and then, in a voice that was almost too calm, too measured, jaehyun spoke. “it’s a shame you told your sister to stay away from me.”

your brother’s eyes widened in horror, his muffled cries returning with a renewed intensity as he realized the gravity of those words. he thrashed against his restraints, but there was no escape. jaehyun remained still, his gaze unwavering as he reached into his back pocket, pulling out a small, sleek handgun. the metal glinted ominously in the dim light, and the sound of the gun being loaded echoed through the empty apartment like a death knell.

his expression didn’t change as he continued, his voice eerily calm, almost detached. “all of this could’ve been avoided.”

there was no anger in his tone, no trace of the emotions that might accompany such a statement. it was as if he were commenting on the weather, or discussing something as mundane as the time of day. your brother in the chair could only watch in terror, his cries reaching a fever pitch as jaehyun calmly raised the gun, leveling it at his forehead. the silence that followed was deafening, the weight of it pressing down on the room like a suffocating blanket. and then, without a moment’s hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

the sound of the gunshot was deafening in the small, enclosed space, reverberating off the walls with a violence that shook the very air around them. your brother’s head snapped back, his body going limp as the life was extinguished from his eyes in an instant. blood splattered against the walls, dark and wet, staining the dull gray with a stark, vivid red. the room was still again, the only sound the faint, echoing ring of the gunshot that slowly faded into silence.

jaehyun stood, his movements slow and deliberate, as he tucked the gun back into his pocket. his face remained expressionless, devoid of any hint of what he might be feeling. there was no remorse in his eyes, no regret, only a cold, unfeeling detachment as he looked down at the lifeless body slumped in the chair. for a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the man he had just killed, as if contemplating something, though what, no one could say. and then, without a word, without a second glance, he turned and walked away, leaving the apartment as empty and silent as it had been before. the door closed behind him with a soft click, and the only evidence that he had ever been there at all was the body left in his wake.

the silence in your home was a stark contrast to the tension that had lingered in the air earlier. your brother was gone, his absence marked only by the note he had left on the fridge. you saw it the moment you walked into the kitchen, a small scrap of paper taped to the metal door, the words scrawled in his familiar handwriting: “had to pick up a few more shifts because of the case. don’t wait up.” you read the note twice before crumpling it in your hand and tossing it into the trash. it wasn’t unusual for him to be gone, especially with the weight of the ongoing investigation. you brushed off the small twinge of unease that had settled in your chest and tried to push your thoughts elsewhere.

you spent the next hour lounging around the house, flipping through tv channels, but nothing could hold your attention for long. the rooms felt empty, hollow almost, and the silence that once brought you comfort now only served to remind you of the isolation. you moved from the couch to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the bedroom, restless and bored. eventually, you found yourself standing in front of the mirror, contemplating your reflection. the idea of heading out had been growing steadily in the back of your mind, a distraction from the loneliness that clung to you like a second skin.

you decided to go to the bar. it wasn’t a place you frequented often, but tonight, the thought of being surrounded by people, the hum of conversation, and the dim lights felt like exactly what you needed. you took your time getting ready, not rushing the process. the dress you chose was one that always made you feel confident, a deep, rich color that clung to your figure in all the right ways. it wasn’t overly revealing, but it had a certain elegance to it, a subtle allure that drew the eye. you spent a few extra moments on your makeup, accentuating your features, adding a touch of color to your lips, and just enough liner to make your eyes pop.

as you stood back to admire your reflection, you couldn’t help but smile at how you looked. stunning, even if it was just for yourself. before you left, you grabbed jaehyun’s jacket, the one he had draped over you in the rain. you wrapped it around yourself, the fabric still carrying the faintest scent of him, a mix of something clean and crisp, yet undeniably masculine. it was comforting, in a way that you couldn’t quite place, as if wearing it provided an extra layer of protection.

the bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where people went to forget the outside world for a while. the warm, amber light filtered through the haze of cigarette smoke, casting soft, flickering shadows across the room. the low hum of chatter and the clink of glasses filled the air, blending together into a background noise that was almost soothing. you found a seat at the bar, ordering yourself a drink and settling into the solitude of your thoughts.

the first sip of your drink warmed you from the inside out, easing the tension in your shoulders as you let yourself relax. the bartender was friendly enough, offering you a smile as he set your drink down in front of you, but he didn’t pry, didn’t ask questions. he could probably tell you were here to be alone, to enjoy your own company, and for that, you were grateful.

you sipped your drink slowly, savoring the burn of alcohol as it slid down your throat, your eyes drifting over the scene around you. people moved through the space in pairs or groups, laughter and conversation flowing freely between them, but none of it reached you. you were content in your bubble of solitude, letting the world fade into the background. but then, out of nowhere, you felt it—a presence behind you, the sensation of someone standing too close, invading your space. you stiffened slightly, your hand tightening around your glass as the man leaned in, his breath hot against your ear.

“hey, beautiful,” he drawled, his voice low and smooth, dripping with the kind of false charm that set your teeth on edge. “what’s a pretty thing like you doing here all alone? wouldn’t you rather come home with me?”

you resisted the urge to recoil, instead forcing yourself to stay calm as you replied, “i’m not interested.”

but he didn’t take the hint. his hand grazed your lower back, fingers trailing over the curve of your hip before dropping lower, brushing against your ass with a familiarity that made your skin crawl. “come on,” he murmured, his voice dripping with arrogance, “don’t be like that.”

you were about to turn around and shove him away, your irritation boiling over into anger, when suddenly, his touch was ripped away. there was a blur of motion, and before you could fully register what was happening, the man was on the ground, sprawled out at your feet.

jaehyun was on top of him, his expression a mask of cold fury as his fist slammed into the man’s face, again and again, the sickening crunch of bone meeting bone echoing through the bar. the man’s cries of pain were muffled by the impact, blood splattering across the floor as jaehyun’s blows grew more violent, more relentless.

you were frozen in shock, your mind struggling to process the scene unfolding in front of you. jaehyun’s expression was one of terrifying calm, his movements precise and controlled, but there was something in his eyes, something dark and dangerous that sent a chill down your spine.

“jaehyun, stop,” you finally found your voice, reaching out to grab his arm, trying to pull him off the man. but it was like trying to move a mountain—he was immovable, his focus entirely on the task at hand, the brutal act of violence he was committing with such cold detachment. “jaehyun, please!” you pleaded, your voice trembling as you tugged harder at his arm, desperation creeping into your tone.

it wasn’t until you locked eyes with him, your gaze pleading and terrified, that something in him shifted. the hardness in his expression softened ever so slightly, and he paused, his fist hovering in the air, mid-strike. his chest heaved with exertion, and for a moment, the only sound was the ragged breathing of the man beneath him, his face a bloodied mess. slowly, he lowered his fist, his eyes never leaving yours. the bar had fallen silent, all eyes on the two of you, the tension thick and suffocating. the bartender was already on the phone, calling the police, and you knew you had to get jaehyun out of there before they arrived.

you grabbed his hand, your grip firm as you pulled him to his feet. he didn’t resist, allowing you to lead him out of the bar, the two of you pushing through the crowd of stunned onlookers. the moment you stepped outside, the cool night air hit you, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside the bar. you didn’t stop until you were a few blocks away, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind racing with the events that had just unfolded. you finally let go of his hand, turning to face him, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“what were you thinking?” you demanded, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. he didn’t answer right away. his expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes, something that told you he wasn’t as unaffected by what had just happened as he appeared to be. he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle given the violence you had just witnessed.

“i couldn’t let him hurt you,” he said quietly, his voice void of emotion, but there was something beneath the surface, something raw and vulnerable that he was trying desperately to keep hidden. you wanted to be angry with him, to demand an explanation, but the words caught in your throat. instead, you found yourself nodding, the adrenaline slowly draining from your system, leaving you feeling weak and shaky.

the night air was cool against your skin as you walked alongside him, leading him back to your house. the streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement, and the distant sounds of the city seemed to fade away as the two of you walked in silence. your heart was still racing from the events at the bar, but the tension had begun to ebb away, replaced by a heavy, lingering exhaustion. he walked quietly beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. his face was calm, his expression unreadable, but you could sense the turmoil beneath the surface. the adrenaline of the fight had drained away, leaving behind a man who was clearly grappling with something deeper, something darker.

as the two of you neared your house, you felt a knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. you had been turning over your thoughts since you left the bar, trying to find the right words to say. it wasn’t just about what had happened tonight—it was about everything. about the man standing next to you, and the path he seemed to be walking down.

you slowed your pace, eventually coming to a stop at the corner of the street, just a few houses away from your own. jaehyun stopped too, his gaze shifting to you, his eyes dark and questioning. “i need to tell you something,” you said, your voice soft, almost hesitant. the words were difficult to say, but you knew you had to.

he tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in concern. “what is it?” he asked, his voice low, steady. you took a deep breath, gathering your courage. “you have to stop what you’re doing, jaehyun. you have to change.”

for a moment, there was nothing but silence between you. the street was empty, the night quiet, and you could hear the distant hum of cars in the background. jaehyun’s expression remained neutral, but you could see the flicker of something in his eyes, a shadow of doubt or fear that he was trying to hide. he turned his gaze away, looking off into the distance. “i don’t think I can,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. there was a heaviness to his words, a resignation that weighed down on your heart.

you reached out, gently touching his arm, drawing his attention back to you. “please, jaehyun. try, for me.”

those last words seemed to hit him harder than anything else you had said. his eyes met yours again, and for the first time since you had met him, you saw something soften in his expression. his cold, guarded exterior cracked just enough for you to see the man beneath, the one who had buried himself under layers of violence and detachment.

slowly, almost imperceptibly, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. it was faint, barely there, but it was real. “i’ll try,” he said, his voice gentler than before. “for you.”

the relief that washed over you was immediate, a wave of warmth that chased away the lingering anxiety in your chest. you smiled back at him, squeezing his arm lightly before letting go. “thank you,” you whispered, your voice full of emotion. with that, the two of you continued your walk, the distance between your house and the corner where you had stopped feeling much shorter now. when you reached your front door, you unlocked it and stepped inside, the familiar comfort of home greeting you as you crossed the threshold. jaehyun followed, closing the door behind him.

the quiet of your home was a stark contrast to the chaos of the bar. it felt like a sanctuary, a safe haven from the outside world, and as you kicked off your shoes and hung up your jacket, you could feel the tension in your body begin to ease. you glanced over at jaehyun, who stood near the door, his eyes scanning the room as if taking in every detail. there was a subtle shift in his demeanor, a slight relaxation in his posture, though his eyes remained guarded. he watched you as you moved around the house, his gaze following your every step.

“do you wanna watch something?” you asked, trying to break the silence. you didn’t want him to leave just yet, not when there was still so much unspoken between you. he nodded, his expression softening. “sure.”

you walked over to the living room and settled on the couch, grabbing the remote and flipping through the channels until you found something that caught your interest. jaehyun joined you, sitting down beside you, though he kept a respectable distance. the television flickered to life, casting a warm glow across the room. the sound of the show filled the air, but your attention was only half on the screen. you couldn’t help but steal glances at him, noticing the way his eyes occasionally flicked toward you, as if he was trying to understand you, to decipher the thoughts that were running through your mind.

after a while, you got up and went to the kitchen, the idea of cooking something for the both of you suddenly appealing. the act of cooking had always been therapeutic for you, a way to clear your mind and focus on something simple, something tangible. you began gathering ingredients, moving around the kitchen with practiced ease, and you felt Jaehyun’s presence behind you, watching you.

“you don’t have to do that,” he said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. you turned to him, offering a small smile. “i want to. it’s nice to have someone to cook for.”

he didn’t say anything in response, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. there was something almost vulnerable in his gaze, a quiet appreciation that he didn’t know how to express in words. he watched as you moved around the kitchen, his eyes never leaving you, as if he was trying to memorize every detail of this moment. the two of you fell into a comfortable rhythm, the tension that had once hung between you slowly dissipating. he offered to help, and though he was clumsy in the kitchen, you appreciated the effort. it was a small thing, but it meant more than he could possibly know.

when the food was ready, you brought the plates to the living room, the two of you settling back on the couch to eat. the television continued to play in the background, but neither of you paid much attention to it. the conversation between you was quiet, subdued, but there was a warmth to it that hadn’t been there before. as you finished your meal, you leaned back against the couch, feeling content and at peace. he set his plate aside and turned to you, his gaze lingering on your face. there was something in his eyes, something soft and unguarded, that made your heart skip a beat.

“you’re— different,” he said quietly, his voice almost reverent. you raised an eyebrow, smiling softly. “different how?”

he didn’t answer right away, his eyes searching your face as if trying to find the right words. “gentle,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “sweet.”

the words were simple, but they carried a weight that made your breath catch. you could see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he looked at you as if you were something precious, something he didn’t quite know how to handle but was afraid of losing. for a moment, neither of you spoke. the silence was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was filled with unspoken words, with the quiet understanding that something had shifted between you. something that neither of you were quite ready to acknowledge, but that you both felt all the same.

you reached out, your hand finding his, and you squeezed it gently. “you don’t have to be different with me, jaehyun,” you said softly. “just be you.” a small smile tugged at his lips, and for the first time, you saw a glimpse of the man he could be—the man he wanted to be, for you.

the night wore on, and as the minutes ticked by, you found yourself slowly succumbing to the warmth of the couch and the soft, comforting murmur of the television. the day’s events had taken their toll, and the quiet, steady presence of jaehyun beside you brought a sense of security you hadn’t realized you were craving. your eyelids grew heavy, each blink becoming slower than the last, until eventually, your head began to tilt to the side. he noticed the subtle shift in your posture, the way your body gradually leaned toward him as sleep claimed you. he stiffened slightly, unsure of what to do. it was new territory for him—uncharted and strange.

he wasn’t used to this kind of closeness, to the softness of another person so near. but as he turned his gaze to you, watching the way your features relaxed into sleep, something inside him shifted. the hardness, the constant alertness that had been ingrained in him for so long, seemed to melt away, leaving behind a quiet, unfamiliar stillness.

you looked so peaceful, so vulnerable. your breathing was slow and steady, your chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. your lips were slightly parted, and a few strands of hair had fallen across your face. he stared at you, his eyes tracing the delicate lines of your features—the curve of your cheek, the soft sweep of your lashes, the way your lips curled up just slightly at the corners, as if you were dreaming of something pleasant. for a long moment, he simply watched you, his mind strangely quiet. there was no rush of thoughts, no internal dialogue. just silence. and in that silence, he realized something—he wasn’t just watching you. he was admiring you.

hesitantly, as if testing the waters, he let his hand fall, his fingers hovering just above your skin. he hesitated for a heartbeat, then let his hand drop to your face, his palm brushing against your cheek. the warmth of your skin surprised him, sending a jolt of something foreign through him—something he couldn’t quite name but didn’t want to ignore. his thumb moved of its own accord, tracing the soft curve of your cheekbone. your skin was smooth under his touch, warm and inviting. he didn’t feel the usual surge of aggression that often accompanied physical contact, nor did he feel the emptiness that had become his constant companion. what he felt was something different—something that made his chest tighten and his breath catch in his throat.

his thumb continued its slow, reverent path, moving down to trace the outline of your jaw. the motion was gentle, almost tender, as if he was afraid of waking you or breaking the fragile peace that had settled over the two of you. his gaze lingered on your face, on the soft curve of your lips, the way your lashes fanned out against your skin. he had never really looked at you like this before, never taken the time to truly see you. and now that he was, he couldn’t look away. you were beautiful.

the thought slipped into his mind unbidden, startling him with its intensity. he hadn’t thought much about beauty before—hadn’t allowed himself to. But now, with you asleep beside him, your face relaxed and free of worry, he couldn’t help but think it. you were beautiful in a way that was more than just physical. it was in the way you had looked at him earlier, the way you had asked him to try, for you. It was in the softness of your voice, the gentleness of your touch, the quiet strength that seemed to radiate from you.

he found himself marveling at it, at the way you seemed to make everything else fade away, leaving only this moment, this connection between the two of you. the foreign feeling in his chest grew stronger, spreading through him like a slow-burning fire. it was warm, almost comforting, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel alone. he didn’t feel empty. he felt something.

jaehyun wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, his hand resting against your cheek, his thumb gently caressing your skin. time seemed to stretch, each second blending into the next, until it felt like the whole world had narrowed down to just the two of you, here on this couch, in this quiet, darkened room. eventually, he felt his own eyelids grow heavy, the day’s events catching up to him as well. but he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break the connection between you. so he stayed where he was, his hand still resting against your cheek, his body leaning ever so slightly toward yours.

his eyes drifted closed, and he let himself relax, the tension in his shoulders easing as he finally allowed himself to give in to the pull of sleep. the last thing he felt before he drifted off was the warmth of your skin against his palm, and the last thing he saw in his mind’s eye was the peaceful look on your face. and then he was asleep, the two of you side by side on the couch, wrapped in a cocoon of quiet, shared warmth.

the morning light filtered in through the half-drawn curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over the room. you stirred slowly, the warmth beneath you unfamiliar yet comforting. qs your eyes fluttered open, you realized that your head was resting in jaehyun's lap. he was still asleep, his breathing steady and deep, his hand resting lightly against your arm as if even in sleep, he was unconsciously holding onto you.

you blinked a few times, adjusting to the morning light, and looked around. the apartment was still and quiet, almost eerily so. there was no sign of your brother, and you didn’t know whether to feel concerned or relieved by his absence. part of you expected to hear the familiar sounds of him moving around the house, making coffee or getting ready for the day, but there was nothing. just silence.

your thoughts drifted to jaehyun, and as you shifted slightly in his lap, he began to stir. his eyelids fluttered, and then his eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light. for a moment, he seemed disoriented, as if he had forgotten where he was. but then his gaze settled on you, and a softness crept into his eyes that you had never seen before.

“good morning,” you whispered, your voice still heavy with sleep. “morning,” he murmured back, his voice low and husky. there was a brief silence as you both took in the situation, the strange intimacy of waking up like this.

“i’m sorry,” you began, a little flustered, as you started to sit up. “i hope i didn’t make you uncomfortable…” before you could finish, he shook his head, quick and sure. “no, it was great,” he said, his tone almost too earnest. there was a sincerity in his words that made your heart skip a beat.

a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you pushed yourself up and off his lap. the cool air of the room made you shiver slightly, but you shook it off as you stretched. “how about i make us some breakfast?” you suggested, eager to fill the quiet with something other than the racing thoughts in your mind. he nodded, watching you closely as you moved about the kitchen. the normalcy of it all felt surreal—cooking breakfast, making coffee, jaehyun quietly observing you from his place on the couch as if it were the most natural thing in the world. but it wasn’t. nothing about this was normal, and yet, you found yourself wanting to make the most of it. to linger in this moment just a little longer.

you focused on the task at hand, cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a practiced ease. as you poured the mixture into the pan, the sizzle of the eggs against the hot surface filled the silence, and you let out a small, contented sigh. “you shouldn’t work so much,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. his voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it that made you pause.

you glanced over your shoulder at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “i like working,” you replied, turning back to the stove. “besides, it keeps my mind busy.” he didn’t respond immediately, but you could feel his eyes on you, studying you, as if trying to understand something that eluded him. the weight of his gaze was almost palpable, and for a moment, you were hyper-aware of every movement you made.

as you continued to work, you didn’t notice jaehyun slowly rising from the couch. he moved quietly, almost predatorily, his eyes never leaving you. there was a tension in his movements, something raw and primal that made him seem like a hunter stalking his prey. but it wasn’t that simple. he wasn’t looking at you like you were prey—he was looking at you like you were something precious, something delicate that needed to be protected. the comparison didn’t even feel right in his mind. no, it was more like he was drawn to you, like you were a rare, blooming flower amidst a field of withering ones. he felt this overwhelming urge to hold onto you, to shield you from the world before you could fade away.

you felt his presence before you saw him, a subtle shift in the air that made you pause. when you turned, your breath caught in your throat as you found him standing so close, his expression intense, yet vulnerable in a way that left you momentarily speechless. his eyes widened slightly, as if surprised by his own actions, but before he could apologize or step back, you smiled up at him, a soft, understanding smile that seemed to ease the tension in his shoulders.

“i’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand half-raised as if unsure whether to reach out to you or not. you shook your head gently, closing the distance between you. “it’s okay,” you whispered back, your voice soothing. your hand came up to rest lightly on his arm, your touch grounding him in a way that nothing else ever had.

the two of you stood there, the air thick with something unspoken, something electric that made your pulse quicken. you stared into each other’s eyes, the rest of the world fading into the background. You could see the conflict in his gaze, the way he was struggling with his emotions, with this unfamiliar territory. and then, without thinking, you leaned in.

it was a small movement, almost imperceptible, but jaehyun noticed. his breath hitched, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, he hesitated. but then, something inside him snapped, and he closed the distance between you, his lips finding yours in a gentle, hesitant kiss. the kiss was soft at first, almost tentative, as if he was afraid of hurting you, of breaking you. but as you responded, your lips moving against his with a quiet urgency, he began to relax. his hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he deepened the kiss.

you felt a rush of warmth flood your chest, your heart pounding in your ears as you kissed him back, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. the world fell away, leaving just the two of you, connected in a way that felt both thrilling and terrifying. jaehyun’s other hand found your waist, his grip firm yet gentle as he lifted you with ease, placing you on the kitchen counter. the cool surface against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, but you hardly noticed, too caught up in the feel of his lips against yours, in the way his body fit perfectly against yours.

your legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss. you could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he was holding himself back, afraid of losing control. but you didn’t want him to hold back. you wanted all of him—his strength, his passion, his intensity. when he finally broke the kiss, both of you were breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other as you tried to catch your breath. his hands were still on you, one resting on your waist, the other gently brushing the stray hairs from your face.

he looked at you then, really looked at you, and for the first time, you saw something in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat. it was vulnerability, raw and unguarded, as if he was letting you see a part of him that no one else had ever seen. and then, without another word, he kissed you again.

this time, the kiss was more intense, more urgent, as if he was pouring all of his emotions into it. his hands roamed your body, exploring, memorizing every curve, every dip of your skin. you could feel his heart pounding against yours, could feel the way his breath hitched every time you moved. you lost yourself in the kiss, in the feel of him, in the way he made you feel. there was nothing else—no worries, no fears, just the two of you, here in this moment, wrapped up in each other. and for the first time in a long while, you felt safe.

you pulled back slightly, gasping for air, your eyes searching his. “i want you,” you whispered, your voice hoarse with desire. jaehyun’s eyes darkened, his pupils dilating with need. he didn’t say anything, but the way he looked at you spoke volumes. you reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head, revealing the chiseled muscles that lay beneath. your hands roamed over his bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

he stepped closer, his hands sliding under your shirt, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. you moaned softly, arching into him as he kissed along your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just hard enough to leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake. you felt his hands unbutton your pants, his fingers deftly unhooking your bra, and a thrill shot through you. this was happening. you were really doing this with him, and it felt right.

his mouth found yours again, his tongue dancing with yours as he pushed your pants down your legs. you stepped out of them, your bare feet brushing against the cold kitchen tiles. he lifted you back onto the counter, his hands supporting your weight as he stepped between your legs. the heat of his body was intoxicating, making you want to melt into him, to never let go.

and then, with one simple movement, he entered you, filling you completely. you gasped, your nails digging into his back as the sensation overwhelmed you. it was unlike anything you’d ever felt before—so raw, so intense, so real. jaehyun’s eyes never left yours, his expression a mix of pleasure and something else—something deeper, something that made your heart ache.

you moved together, finding a rhythm that felt like it had been written just for the two of you. your bodies were one, moving in perfect harmony, as if they had been made to fit together. there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, the slap of skin against skin, and the quiet moans that slipped from your lips. jaehyun’s movements grew more urgent, his grip on your hips tightening as he pushed deeper, harder.

you could feel yourself getting closer, the pressure building, your body tightening around him. “yes,” you moaned, your voice needy. “just like that, jaehyun. don’t stop.” he didn’t. he didn’t stop, didn’t hold back, giving you everything you’d ever wanted from him, everything you hadn’t even known you needed. and when you finally came, it was with his name on your lips, his eyes staring into yours, as if he could see straight into your soul. his own release followed shortly after, his body tensing, his eyes squeezing shut as he buried his face in your neck. you held onto him, feeling his warmth, his breath against your skin. for a moment, you just stayed like that, your bodies still connected, your hearts beating in sync.

once the tremors had subsided, he pulled back, his eyes searching yours. there was something in his gaze that was almost apologetic, but you knew it wasn’t for what just happened. it was for everything else—for all the times he’d held back, for all the things he hadn’t said. but in this moment, you didn’t need words. the connection you shared was more than enough.

you leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, feeling the tension in his body ease. “it’s okay,” you murmured, stroking his hair. “i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.” and in that moment, despite his fears, despite the darkness that lurked beneath the surface, jaehyun allowed himself to believe you. because in your arms, he felt like he could finally let go.

the two of you wandered aimlessly through the quiet streets, the afterglow of your shared moment still clinging to the air between you. it was as if time had slowed down, allowing you to savor the warmth that lingered in your chest, the memory of his touch, his kiss, still fresh on your lips. he walked beside you, his steps measured, his gaze forward, yet you could sense the internal battle raging within him. his mind, always calculating, always detached, now struggled to reconcile this newfound vulnerability. he had spent so long keeping everyone at arm’s length, viewing the world through a lens of detachment and apathy. but with you, something was different. you made him feel, and that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

as you walked together, the scenery began to shift. the neighborhood around you changed, becoming less pristine, more worn. the buildings were old, some with peeling paint, others with broken windows patched haphazardly with plastic. the streets were littered with debris, and the once-vibrant graffiti that adorned the walls had faded into dull smudges of color. it was a stark contrast to the warmth you had just shared, and it made you pause.

“do you really live around here?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with concern as you took in your surroundings. he nodded, his jaw clenched as he continued to walk. there was a tension in his posture, a stiffness that hadn’t been there before. he was used to this environment, to the bleakness and the harshness of it, but he wasn’t used to sharing it with someone like you. he wasn’t used to someone seeing this part of his life, this part of him.

you watched him, noting the way his shoulders seemed to draw inwards, as if he were trying to shield himself from your gaze. without thinking, you reached out and took his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together in a simple, yet deliberate act of comfort. the gesture made him falter, his steps slowing as he looked down at your joined hands, surprise flashing in his eyes.

“you should come over to my place more often,” you said softly, offering him a smile that was both gentle and reassuring. “you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.”

he stared at you, as if trying to comprehend why you would offer something like that, why you would want him around more, especially after seeing where he lived. but instead of questioning it, he found himself nodding, the words of agreement slipping past his lips before he could overthink them. “i’d like that.”

you both walked in silence for a while longer, your hands still entwined, the weight of the world seemingly lighter with him beside you. eventually, you found yourselves at one of the old buildings, a towering structure with crumbling bricks and rusted fire escapes. jaehyun led you up the narrow stairwell, your footsteps echoing in the confined space, until you reached the rooftop.

the view from up here wasn’t the kind you’d typically associate with beauty. the streets below were cracked and dirty, the buildings surrounding you worn and decaying, the air heavy with the scent of pollution. but with jaehyun beside you, it didn’t matter. the two of you stood at the edge, looking out at the cityscape, the sun slowly sinking behind the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and orange.

he reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint, sparking it up with the ease of someone who had done it countless times before. he took a slow drag, the smoke curling around his lips before he offered it to you, a glint of something playful in his eyes. you raised an eyebrow, hesitant. you had never been one to indulge in substances like this, and the thought of him relying on them made you uneasy. but you could see the challenge in his gaze, the unspoken dare. he was testing you, trying to see how far you would go for him, if you were willing to step into his world, even if just for a moment.

with a small sigh, you took the joint from his hand, surprising him. “you promised me you’d try to be better,” you said quietly, your eyes meeting his. “i can try for you too.”

he blinked, clearly taken aback by your words, by the way you seemed so willing to step out of your comfort zone just for him. there was something about the way you said it, something so sincere, that it shook him to his core. he watched, almost in disbelief, as you brought the joint to your lips and inhaled. the smoke burned your lungs, and you coughed, but you tried again, this time more carefully, letting the warmth spread through your chest.

his heart skipped a beat as he saw you struggle to relax, trying to embrace something foreign to you, all for his sake. he had never expected this. never expected anyone to believe in him the way you did.

“i’m serious,” he said after a moment, his voice low, almost reverent. “about being better for you.” you exhaled slowly, the smoke leaving your lungs as you looked at him, your eyes soft and full of trust. “i know,” you whispered, and when he asked how you could be so sure, you simply smiled.

“i believe in you,” you replied, and those simple words made his heart flutter in a way he had never experienced before. it was a strange sensation, almost alien to him. he had spent so long feeling nothing, so long numbing himself to the world, and yet here you were, making him feel again.

the two of you passed the joint back and forth, the world around you beginning to blur and soften. the harsh edges of reality dulled, replaced by a warm haze that made everything feel distant, dreamlike. you were faded. the tension that had once been so present between you now melted away, replaced by a deep, shared connection that pulsed between you like a living thing. your limbs felt heavy, your thoughts slow and languid, but you didn’t mind. not when you were leaning against his shoulder, the weight of his arm around you, the warmth of his body grounding you. the world below might have been crumbling, but up here, with him, you felt safe.

jaehyun, too, felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. love, or something close to it, something that made his heart swell and his mind quiet. he had always been a predator in his own world, moving through life with a cold detachment, taking what he wanted without care for the consequences. but with you, it was different. with you, he felt like he had found something worth protecting, something worth holding onto.

he glanced down at you, your head resting against his shoulder, your eyes half-lidded with the haze of the high. you looked peaceful, content, and it made something inside him soften. he wasn’t used to this, wasn’t used to feeling so tender, so vulnerable. but he didn’t hate it. not with you.

“thank you,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere, though he wasn’t sure if you heard him. maybe it didn’t matter. maybe you already knew. the two of you sat there in comfortable silence, the city below forgotten, the worries of the world slipping away. and as the sky darkened, the stars slowly appearing above, you both drifted into a quiet, shared peace, content to simply be in each other’s presence.

the days that followed your shared moment on that rooftop were different for jaehyun. the world seemed clearer, sharper, as if a fog had lifted, revealing all that he had been missing. his mind, usually so cold and calculating, now buzzed with an energy he hadn't felt in a long time. it was an unfamiliar sensation, but not an unwelcome one.

he didn’t want to die. not anymore. not when he finally had something—someone—worth living for. the darkness that had clung to him for so long, the apathy that had guided his every move, began to recede. the idea of losing himself to that darkness, of losing you in the process, terrified him more than anything.

for the first time in his life, he found himself actively avoiding the situations that once drew him in like a moth to a flame. he no longer sought out the chaos, no longer indulged in the reckless behaviors that had defined him for so long. the streets that once called to him with their promises of violence and danger now seemed empty, devoid of meaning. he didn’t want to get caught up in any more bad situations. he didn’t want to risk losing you. instead, he spent his days with a newfound purpose, a resolve to be better, to be someone you could trust, someone you could love. he found himself thinking of you constantly, your voice, your smile, the way you made him feel alive in a way he had never known before. every thought of you strengthened his resolve, reminding him of what was at stake. but the shadows of his past were not so easily escaped.

as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the city, jaehyun found himself alone, standing in an empty alleyway. the air was heavy with the scent of asphalt and exhaust, the quiet hum of the city in the distance. he sparked a cigarette, the familiar burn of nicotine filling his lungs as he leaned against the brick wall, lost in thought.

the sound of footsteps echoed in the alley, and he tensed, his senses sharpening. a woman’s voice cut through the silence, cold and commanding. “i know what you did.”

he turned slowly, his expression calm, controlled, as if her words hadn’t fazed him. the woman stood at the mouth of the alley, her uniform crisp, her badge glinting in the fading light. her gaze was steady, unyielding, as she looked at him with a mixture of disdain and certainty. he took another drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke curl around him as he met her gaze. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

she scoffed, her lips curling into a mirthless smile. “oh, i think you do. you killed him.”

his heart skipped a beat, but his face remained impassive, betraying nothing. his mind raced, analyzing, calculating his next move. he could feel the familiar pull of violence, the urge to silence her before she could say anything more. it would be so easy, so quick. but then he thought of you, of the promise he had made, and the darkness inside him hesitated.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeated, his voice steady, almost bored.

the officer’s smile widened, her eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction. “it’s a shame. i wonder what your girlfriend would say if she knew you killed her brother.”

her words hit him like a sledgehammer, but he didn’t let it show. the cigarette burned between his fingers, but he didn’t move. the urge to attack her, to end this threat to his new life, surged within him, his muscles tensing, ready to spring. he could see it in his mind’s eye—grabbing her by the throat, the life draining from her eyes as she gasped for air. he could feel the adrenaline, the rush that came with the kill.

but then he saw your face, the way you had looked at him, the trust in your eyes. the thought of you finding out, of seeing the darkness in him, made his heart ache in a way he wasn’t used to. he couldn’t do it. mot because he was afraid of the consequences, but because he had promised you. he had promised to be better. so, he did something he had never done before. he walked away.

he dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his heel as he turned his back on the officer, on the temptation to give in to the darkness. every step he took away from her was a victory, a defiance of the person he used to be. the officer’s voice echoed in the alley, taunting, trying to goad him into a reaction. but he didn’t stop. for the first time in his life, he walked away from a fight, from the violence that had always defined him. and as he walked, he felt a strange sense of relief, a lightness that he hadn’t known he was capable of feeling.

he didn’t look back. he didn’t need to. he had made his choice, and it was a choice for you, for the life he wanted to build with you. the darkness would always be a part of him, lurking in the shadows, waiting for a moment of weakness. but for now, he was stronger. for now, he had something worth fighting for, something worth living for. and he wasn’t going to let anyone take that away from him. not even himself.

the days without your brother's presence felt like an eternity. every hour that passed was heavier than the last, each second a weight pressing down on your chest. the apartment, once filled with the sounds of his laughter, his footsteps, his voice, now felt eerily silent, as if the walls themselves were mourning his absence. you tried to carry on as if nothing was wrong, telling yourself that he was just busy, that he would walk through the door any moment, but deep down, you knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

anxiety gnawed at you, a relentless, gnawing ache that twisted your stomach into knots. the pit in your stomach only deepened with each passing day. sleep was no longer a comfort but a battlefield where your worst fears came to life. you couldn't eat, couldn't focus, your mind constantly replaying the last time you saw him, wondering if you missed some sign, some warning that this would happen.

you tried to keep it together, to stay strong, but the fear was overwhelming. it was like a storm inside you, building in intensity until you felt like you might break apart. you needed someone, anyone, to tell you that everything would be okay, even if it was a lie. you needed comfort, a lifeline, something to anchor you before you were swept away by the tidal wave of grief and fear.

without thinking, your fingers found your phone, dialing a number that had become all too familiar. the ringing in your ear was a small lifeline, a thread connecting you to the one person who had come to mean so much to you in such a short time. the moment you heard jaehyun's voice on the other end of the line, calm and steady, you felt the dam inside you break.

“is something wrong?” he asked immediately, his voice tinged with a concern that was still new to him, still unfamiliar.

you tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat, choked by the sobs that you had been holding back for days. when you finally managed to get the words out, they were broken, fragmented, spilling out in a rush of desperation and fear. “something's wrong, jaehyun. i haven't seen my brother for days. he hasn't called, hasn't texted. i just know something’s happened, i can feel it.”

on the other end of the line, jaehyun was silent, but the sound of your cries cut through him like a blade. this grief, this sorrow that was not his own, was foreign to him, a bitter poison that seeped into his veins, paralyzing him with its weight. he was used to dealing with pain in others, usually inflicted by his own hand, but this, this was different. it was raw, unfiltered, and it made something inside him recoil, as if the grief itself was a living thing, clawing at his insides.

he wanted to make it stop, to ease your pain, but he didn’t know how. his mind raced, searching for the right words, the right thing to say, but all he could think of was the emptiness, the coldness that had always been his companion. he didn’t know how to comfort, didn’t know how to soothe. all he knew was that he couldn’t stand hearing you like this, couldn’t stand the thought of you suffering.

“he’s probably just busy,” he said, his voice softer than it had ever been. “you know how it is with work, sometimes it just takes over. I’m sure he’s fine. he’ll be back soon, and everything will be okay.”

he didn’t believe the words himself, but he needed you to believe them. he needed you to find some peace, some solace in the chaos that was tearing you apart. as he spoke, he could hear your breathing start to calm, your sobs quieting as his words wrapped around you like a fragile, protective shield.

“thank you, jaehyun,” you whispered, your voice trembling but filled with a small, fragile hope. “thank you for being there for me.” he felt something tighten in his chest, a sensation he didn’t recognize, a mixture of relief and something darker, something more dangerous. grief, foreign and unwelcome, twisted inside him, but it wasn’t the grief he felt for your brother, it was something else entirely. it was grief for you, for the pain you were in, for the vulnerability in your voice that made him want to protect you, to shield you from everything that could hurt you.

but grief was not something he was familiar with, not something he knew how to control. it festered inside him, turning, twisting, until it morphed into something more familiar—anger. his fingers tightened around the phone as he ended the call, his jaw clenching as the unwanted emotions surged through him, overwhelming his usual calm.

the aggression that had always been his default response, the darkness that had always been his shield, rose up inside him, demanding release. he stood abruptly, the chair in his room toppling over as he kicked it, the loud crash echoing in the small space. it wasn’t enough. the rage that had been born of grief and fear was a fire that demanded more destruction, more violence, but he fought it back, swallowing it down as he stood there, panting, his hands clenched into fists. but for all the rage that burned inside him, one thing was clear: he couldn’t let it consume him. not now. not when you needed him. he had to be strong, had to be better, for you. the darkness was still there, lurking just beneath the surface, but for now, he forced it down, buried it deep where it couldn’t touch you, where it couldn’t hurt you. for now, all he wanted was to be the person you needed him to be. and for the first time, that thought, that desire, was stronger than the darkness that had always defined him.

the weight of grief sat heavy on jaehyun’s chest, an unfamiliar sensation that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. he wasn’t used to this kind of emotional turmoil, this festering darkness that seemed to grow with each passing hour. the sorrow he felt wasn’t even his own—it was yours. but it had seeped into him, taken root, and now it was twisting into something he could hardly control.

he had tried to push it down, to bury it beneath layers of cold detachment, but it clawed its way back up, demanding to be felt, to be acknowledged. the grief wasn’t something he knew how to deal with, and so it quickly turned into anger. raw, burning anger that made his blood boil and his hands tremble. anger at your brother for dying, anger at himself for killing him, and anger at the world for making him feel so helpless.

he paced the small confines of his apartment, the walls closing in on him as his thoughts raced, each one darker than the last. his mind replayed your voice, the way it had broken over the phone, and it only fueled the fire inside him. he clenched his fists, trying to focus on anything else, anything that would take the edge off the searing rage that threatened to consume him.

just as he felt like he was about to lose control, a sharp knock on the door echoed through the room, cutting through the silence like a blade. his breath hitched, and he stopped in his tracks, his entire body tensing as the knock came again, louder, more insistent. he knew who it was even before he opened the door, a cold dread settling in his gut.

when he swung the door open, there she was—the police officer from before, her cold, piercing gaze locking onto his the moment the door creaked open. her presence was a reminder of the reality he was trying so hard to ignore, a reminder of the violence that simmered just beneath his skin.

“jaehyun,” she greeted, her voice dripping with the same disdain she had shown before. “i told you, i know what you did.”

his jaw tightened, and he forced himself to remain calm, to keep his emotions in check. he met her gaze with a cold, unreadable expression, trying to play it off like her words didn’t affect him, like he didn’t care about the accusations she was hurling his way. “i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. but even as he spoke, his mind was racing, trying to figure out how to get rid of her, how to make her go away before the anger boiling inside him erupted.

she scoffed, taking a step into the room, her eyes narrowing as she looked him up and down. “don’t play dumb with me. i know you killed him. and it’s only a matter of time before the truth comes out.” the anger flared again, hot and uncontrollable, and he had to dig his nails into his palms to stop himself from lashing out. he could feel the darkness rising inside him, the need to silence her, to make her stop talking, stop threatening the life he was trying so hard to protect.

“it’s a shame,” she continued, her voice taunting, as if she could sense his inner turmoil and was reveling in it. “i really do wonder what your girlfriend will say when she finds out.”

her words hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs. the mention of you, of your connection to this, was like a match to gasoline, igniting the fury inside him to a level he had never experienced before. it wasn’t just anger anymore—it was pure, unadulterated rage, and it was directed at the woman standing in front of him. he wanted to strike out, to hurt her, to make her pay for the pain she was causing, but he hesitated. your voice, soft and pleading, echoed in his mind, a reminder of the promise he had made to you. he had promised to be better, to control himself, for you. but the rage was too much, too powerful, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

before he could think, before he could rationalize, he reached for the gun he had hidden away, the cold metal heavy in his hand. his movements were automatic, driven by instinct, by the need to protect what was his. the officer’s eyes widened in shock as she saw the weapon, but she didn’t have time to react. his finger squeezed the trigger, and the deafening sound of the gunshot echoed through the small apartment, shattering the silence.

she crumpled to the floor, the life leaving her eyes in an instant. the sight of her lifeless body, blood pooling around her, hit him like a tidal wave, washing away the anger and leaving only cold, stark reality in its wake. he stared at her, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps, as the full weight of what he had done crashed down on him.

the gun slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor as he stumbled back, his heart pounding in his chest. this wasn’t supposed to happen. he wasn’t supposed to lose control like this, not when he had promised you that he would be better. but it was too late now—what was done was done, and there was no going back.

panic surged through him, a cold, paralyzing fear that gripped him by the throat. he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, all he could see was the blood, the lifeless body that lay at his feet. and all he could think about was you, and how this would destroy you. his trembling hands fumbled for his phone, and he dialed your number with shaky fingers, his heart racing as he waited for you to pick up. when your voice came through the line, soft and filled with concern, it was like a lifeline, pulling him back from the brink of complete despair.

“jaehyun?” you asked, your voice gentle but tinged with worry. “what’s wrong?” he couldn’t find the words at first, his throat tightening with a mix of fear and guilt. when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, filled with a desperation he couldn’t hide.

“i made a mistake,” he choked out, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “i didn’t mean to.”

your alarmed silence on the other end only heightened his panic, and he could hear you moving, the sound of rustling as you hurried to get ready. “i’m coming over,” you said quickly, your voice filled with determination. “i’ll be there as soon as i can. just hold on, jaehyun. i’m on my way.”

as the line went dead, jaehyun stared down at the body on his floor, the reality of what he had done crashing down on him with relentless force. he knew there was no escaping this, no undoing what had been done. the darkness he had tried so hard to keep at bay had finally won, and now he was left to face the consequences. but all he could think about was you, and the look in your eyes when you found out what he had done. the guilt, the shame, and the fear were almost too much to bear, but he had to hold on. he had to see you one last time, even if it meant facing the truth of what he had become.

the frantic pounding of your heart echoed in your ears as you burst into jaehyun’s apartment, breathless and disheveled. the sight that greeted you was a horrific tableau of chaos and blood—a scene straight out of your worst nightmares. the lifeless body of the police officer lay sprawled on the floor, a pool of crimson spreading beneath her. the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, mingling with the acrid tang of gunpowder.

you froze for a moment, the reality of the scene crashing down on you like a tidal wave. jaehyun stood in the center of the room, his face a mask of anguish and disbelief. his eyes were wild, darting from you to the body on the floor, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “jaehyun,” you whispered, the word barely escaping your lips. the sheer horror of the scene gripped you, tightening around your chest like a vice. tears sprang to your eyes, but you forced them back, focusing on the man you had come to care for.

he stumbled towards you, his hands reaching out as if to grasp at some semblance of control. “i’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “i didn’t mean to—” before he could finish, you raised a hand, shaking your head with a numb acceptance. “it’s okay,” you said softly, though your voice was strained. “i knew you couldn’t change immediately.”

the words seemed to hit him like a physical blow. his eyes widened, disbelief etched into every line of his face. he looked as though he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, struggling to hold on to whatever shreds of composure he had left.

“please,” he pleaded, desperation flooding his voice. “get angry at me. yell at me. hit me. do something—”

you shook your head, your expression remaining resolute and eerily calm. in the midst of the chaos and the gore, you stood before him, the emotional turmoil contained within you like a storm waiting to break. he looked at you, his gaze searching for some sign of the anger or reproach he so desperately wanted from you. but your face remained a blank canvas, betraying nothing of the inner storm.

finally, he broke, his voice a strained whisper. “i killed your brother.”

the words hung heavy in the air between you, their impact undeniable. for a moment, time seemed to stand still. the intensity of the admission, combined with the grotesque reality of the scene, threatened to overwhelm you.

you took a deep breath, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze. “i know.”

the utter shock on his face was almost palpable. he stared at you, his mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to comprehend the depth of your reaction—or lack thereof. the warmth that had once graced your features had vanished, replaced by a stoic mask of acceptance.

“why?” jaehyun asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. “why would you love me and stay with me if you knew everything?” the question was raw, an unspoken plea for understanding that cut to the heart of his own struggle. you took a step closer, your eyes softening as you looked at him.

“because i believe in you,” you said quietly. “i knew you were trying. i knew that change takes time, and that sometimes, sometimes we falter.” the shock in his eyes deepened, his face a canvas of confusion and disbelief. the realization that you had accepted him despite everything, despite the monstrous act he had committed, was almost too much for him to process.

he swallowed hard, the weight of his guilt and remorse pressing down on him with suffocating force. “i’m so sorry,” he repeated, his voice breaking with raw emotion. without another word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. the contact was gentle but firm, a silent promise that despite the horror and the pain, you were still there for him. you could feel him trembling against you, the strong, powerful man reduced to a fragile shell of his former self.

“it’ll all be okay,” you murmured into his ear, your voice filled with quiet conviction. he wanted to live, for the first time in forever. you wanted to live. you wanted to live alongside him, it was all you wanted. you wanted to live.

jaehyun clung to you, his breaths coming in shuddering gasps. the reality of what he had done seemed to sink in fully now, and he was left with nothing but the crushing weight of his actions and the glimmer of hope that you represented. as you held him, the enormity of the situation began to settle, the darkness that had enveloped him slowly giving way to the fragile light of your presence.

the room was filled with an oppressive silence, the heavy weight of the aftermath pressing down on both of you. as you slowly pulled away from jaehyun, his eyes locked onto yours, full of a mix of desperation and confusion. but your attention was drawn to the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs. the tension in the air thickened as an officer burst into view, gun drawn, her expression grim and unyielding.

your heart pounded in your chest, a cold rush of fear gripping you. jaehyun’s gaze followed yours, and for a moment, his eyes widened with understanding, but it was already too late. without thinking, you stepped in front of him, your back facing the officer. the metallic clink of the gun being aimed, the sharp inhale of breath—it all happened in a blur.

time seemed to stretch as you felt a searing pain erupt in your chest, the bullet tearing through your body with a sickening impact. the pain was intense but fleeting, a sharp, fiery stab that left you gasping for breath. the world around you dimmed, a curtain of darkness falling over your vision as you staggered forward. jaehyun’s face contorted in horror and disbelief as he saw you fall, his body moving with a frantic, desperate energy. “no,” he managed to speak, but the sound was swallowed by the cacophony of the moment.

before you could fully collapse to the floor, the officer's gun fired again, the bullet striking jaehyun. he crumpled to the ground beside you, the force of the impact causing him to drop like a ragdoll. the room seemed to close in on itself, the world narrowing to the pain and the two of you lying together on the cold, unforgiving floor.

the silence that followed was filled with the weight of unspoken words and unfulfilled promises. your breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, each one more difficult than the last. jaehyun's eyes, once so full of anger and torment, were now filled with an aching sorrow as he stared at you. his tears began to fall, mingling with the blood that stained the floor around you.

with trembling hands, you reached out to him, your fingers brushing against his cheek. his face was a mixture of agony and tenderness as he leaned into your touch, placing his cheek against your hand. the world around you continued to blur and fade, the edges of reality dissolving into darkness.

“i love you,” you managed to whisper, the words escaping your lips with a fragile strength.

jaehyun’s tears fell freely now, his entire being shuddering with the depth of his emotion. “i love you too,” he croaked, his voice cracking with the weight of the confession.

in those final, fleeting moments, the world seemed to dissolve into a haze of shadows and fading light. the pain, the fear, the anguish—all of it began to slip away, replaced by a deep, comforting warmth as you clung to the last remnants of consciousness. jaehyun's presence beside you was a bittersweet comfort, a connection that transcended the immediate horrors of the situation.

as your vision dimmed and the darkness began to consume you, you felt a final, overwhelming sense of peace. the last thing you saw was jaehyun’s tear-streaked face, and the last thing you heard was his whispered confession of love, a promise that would linger even as the world faded away.

✧.*

a/n: goodbye this made me so sad

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